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Class "pZ^ 
Book .A 2-(g 5 
Copyright K?_ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSZR 















CHRIST BEFORE PILATE 























CHRIST BEFORE 
PILATE 

¥ 


An 

American 

Story 


By 

WALDEMAR AGER 



Copyright, 1924, by 
AUGSBURG PUBLISHING HOUSE 
MINNEAPOLIS, MINN. 


* •> 1 


OCT II i924 


CHAPTER I 


There were two Norwegian churches in town. One 
was a large and beautiful edifice in a desirable locality, 
while the other was a small wooden structure whose 
steeple scarcely rose above the neighboring chimneys. 

Rev. Mr. Mosevig, who served the small church, 
looked with scorn upon Rev. Mr. Welde, who served 
the large one. He did not even like the church build¬ 
ing itself. Stained glass windows and decorations in 
general were to him only the lust of the eyes and a 
superfluity. The Lord would certainly permit His 
gracious Spirit to descend upon His servant even tho 
the pulpit had no gilded moldings or carved panels, 
and He received the sinners who came to Him even 
tho there were no velvet cushions for them to kneel 
upon. Pastor Mosevig often gave expression to these 
sentiments, and could not avoid drawing comparisons 
between himself and Pastor Welde. Like the apos¬ 
tles of old, he himself had been called, so to speak, 
from the workshop to the pulpit. In his youth he had 
been a sailor, and after coming over to this country 
he had worked as a carpenter and had preached the 
Gospel to his countrymen whenever an opportunity 
presented itself. With joy he dwelt upon this period 
of his life, for his efforts had not been without fruit, 
and it was upon the urgent request of his many friends 
that he had decided to enter the ministry. There had, 
in fact, been something unusual about his whole life. 
With only two years’ schooling, and those at an ad¬ 
vanced age, he had succeeded in mastering the essen¬ 
tials, and he felt the divine call so clearly. When he 
had handled his carpenter’s tools, they had all seemed 
to have a spiritual significance to him. The hammer 


6 


Waldemar Ager 


was a reminder of the Word of God, which breaketh 
the rock to pieces; the square was a symbol of the 
measure with which all shall be measured; and a piece 
of lumber would remind him of the tree of knowledge 
and the tree of life described in Genesis 11:9, as well 
as of the true Vine upon which he, in spite of his im¬ 
perfections, could count himself a branch. 

Having thus been incessantly reminded of his duty 
to testify to others, he had found no peace until he 
decided to enter a theological school for a brief period 
of training, and then to take up the work of guiding 
human souls back to the fold in earnest. 

His thoughts dwelt with humility upon his lowly 
parentage and the fisherman’s hut which had been 
his home in Norway. But the humility was also 
mingled with a spark of pride. Who would have 
thought that the little boy who sat shivering with cold 
in the old fisherboat, often suffering from want, should 
grow up to be a minister of the Gospel? Surely he 
had been guided by a power other than that of man. 

But what manner of call had this Pastor Welde 
received? Again and again he asked himself this 
question, and with an ironical smile he summed up 
the answer: the Welde family belonged to the old 
aristocracy of Norway. The father and the grand¬ 
father were both ministers, the one more austere and 
unbending than the other. Call? Yes, the call passed 
from father to son as a family inheritance among the 
Weldes. The one appointed the other, the eldest son 
entering his father’s profession as a matter of course. 
But did they have any call from their heavenly Fa¬ 
ther? Mosevig shrugged his shoulders at the thought 
but could not shake it off. Descending from such a 
family, one could enjoy all the advantages of travel 
and study, could learn all the languages of the world, 
and there would be no difficulty in securing the pas- 


Christ Before Pilate 


7 


torate of a wealthy church. But as to the Spiritual, 
that was a different matter. He could expound all 
the difficult theological periodicals, but in order to 
deliver a sermon he would first have to write it down 
on paper, take it to the pulpit, and read it. As for 
himself, he had never taken thought of what he should 
speak. His sermons came to him as an inspiration, 
and he could preach as often and as long as he desired 
and never run out of words. He drew from the in¬ 
exhaustible fountain and could not but pity those who 
sought to refresh famished souls from the dusty 
shelves of their own worldly wisdom. And still, was 
not that what the world wanted? But in order to 
show others the way of salvation it was necessary 
for one to have trodden upon it himself. He recalled 
his early life, previous to his conversion in the Sea¬ 
men’s Church in Pensacola. It had been no worse 
than that of others, perhaps, but he found a certain 
joy in dwelling upon the darkest phases of it. His 
life was divided into two distinct epochs—the time of 
darkness and the time of light, and against the dark 
background he seemed to see the light with greater 
clearness, as when one who has been blind regains 
his sight. But how could anyone guide others over 
a path upon which he himself had not trodden? He 
doubted that Rev. Mr. Welde had ever experienced 
any real conversion. 

The charge Pastor Mosevig was now serving was 
not his first. It had been his fate, that when he had 
worked in a place until the church had become self- 
supporting, something would turn up and his services 
were transferred to another locality. He was able to 
get along with meager means, a thing necessary in 
the place where he now was. The larger church on 
the East Side hindered the growth of the smaller one. 
All the new families moving in joined that one, and 


8 


Waldemar Ager 


the minister over there was called to officiate at nearly 
all weddings, funerals, christenings, etc., thereby in¬ 
creasing his income at the expense of the other. Those 
who had never formally joined either of the two 
churches considered themselves as members at the 
larger one, and when an inquiry was made in town 
for a Norwegian church or minister, they were di¬ 
rected there as a matter of course, as few seemed to 
be aware of the existence of another Norwegian church 
in the town. The ladies’ aid society in Pastor Wel- 
de’s church would take in twenty dollars at a meeting, 
and the offerings in his church would run into hun¬ 
dreds. Mr. Brooten, the rich banker, contributed more 
alone to the church treasury than the amount of Pas¬ 
tor Mosevig’s salary for the entire year. The young 
people sought Pastor Welde’s church as they felt 
more at home there, and rooms were fitted up in the 
basement, where they could have their meetings. 
Pastor Mosevig reflected with bitterness that it was 
small wonder that the East Side church prospered 
materially, tho to him it resembled the valley filled 
with dead bones. , 


Rev. Conrad Walther Welde was returning from 
a walk. He was still almost a stranger in town, and 
the desire to become better acquainted with his sur¬ 
roundings, as well as the enchanting air of early 
spring, had drawn him out of doors. During his walk 
he had made the discovery that the place was very 
beautiful, and he had seen several bits of scenery that 
ought to be painted. The mill-pond, for instance, was 
very picturesque. Especially he had noticed a great 
rock projecting into the pond. In a rift there grew 
a dwarfed pine. The large roots lay gnarled and bare, 
but they evidently struck deep somewhere, for the 
growth of the tree was as vigorous as its appearance 



Christ Before Pilate 


9 


was scraggy. It fitted in so admirably with the sur¬ 
roundings. Hundreds of thousands of logs had pas¬ 
sed it on their way to the saw-mill, where they had 
lost their identity amid much groaning and buzzing. 
The giants of the forest had been felled, but the mis¬ 
shapen pine had been spared. There was a wonderful 
play of colors on the mill-pond. The pale green back¬ 
ground, the dead leaves from last year, all sought re¬ 
flection in the water, but there fell also the shadow of 
the dwarfed pine, and the various shades of green 
found reflection in that deeper green. That was what 
made the mill-pond so interesting. 

Yes, it ought to be painted. To him everything 
ought to be painted—faces, horses, cows, old houses, 
even mud puddles,—yes, everything ought to be paint¬ 
ed. But she—who was to do all this painting—how 
did she fare? He could still see her as she sat at her 
easel, always in a strong light, always with a half- 
finished canvas before her, and with a halo of light 
about her as she worked. He had often watched her 
when she painted and had to direct his conversation at 
her neck—a slim little neck that could make re¬ 
sponses to what he said with expressive half-turns, 
which he could interpret to his own liking. Occa¬ 
sionally she would turn around to glance at him, 
radiantly, teasingly. It had affected him like a warm 
shower, followed by a slight chill. “Maggie, Maggie!” 
He repeated the name audibly, with an effort. 


He had now reached Main Street. The perfect lines 
of his tall figure were brought out by his modish, 
close-fitting coat, and a wealth of wavy hair was vis¬ 
ible beneath his tall hat. He carried an umbrella 
under his arm and his slender, gloved hand was con¬ 
stantly being raised to his hat in recognition of the 
greetings he received. Many of those whom he met, 



10 


Waldemar Ager 


especially among the ladies, seemed to know him, and 
a smile of pleasure lighted up his youthful face at the 
thought that so many already knew him. 

Suddenly he noticed the bent and awkward figure 
of a man with a blond beard and nickel-rimmed glas¬ 
ses. It was Pastor Mosevig. Welde grew attentive 
immediately and glanced toward him. He had met 
him several times in the same manner but Mosevig 
had never spoken. Would he notice him now? As 
he drew nearer, Pastor Welde observed how the 
threadbare coat had faded to a yellowish brown across 
the shoulders and that the crown of his hat was quite 
green. He also noticed the large, protruding jaws and 
mouth, scantily covered with a thin beard, the freck¬ 
led hands and his large, flat shoes. Would Pastor 
Mosevig recognize him this time? No! He absent- 
mindedly gazed at the row of houses across the 
street. Welde, himself, would have spoken first had 
Mosevig only looked his way, but this he did not do. 
After they had passed each other, Welde could not 
keep from turning to catch another glimpse of him. 
As on former occasions, the sight of the bent figure 
touched him with a feeling of pity and an inexplicable 
sense of guilt. There was a sullen, helpless expres¬ 
sion in the lines about that protruding mouth of his, 
—harassed, but also brutish, at once reminding one 
of a fish and a bulldog. 

Pastor Welde reflected as he passed on, that just 
such an expression would be developed in people who 
for generations have had to keep their mouths shut, 
people forced to suffer in silence, people who have had 
to fight back the hot tears and the bitter words which 
clamored for utterance, people who have swallowed 
choking grievances down a parched throat. Such 
mouth and jaw outfits stand for the complaints of 
generations, complaints to which no one has cared 


Christ Before Pilate 


11 


to listen. And besides, he recalled things he had heard 
about Pastor Mosevig and his church. The young 
ladies of his own choir often held up the Mosevig 
church choir to ridicule, and told how Mrs. Mosevig 
would sometimes sing contralto with the baby in her 
arms when their regular alto was absent. A married 
woman, two half-grown girls, the minister's daughter, 
an old deacon who functioned as basso, and a grocery 
clerk who courted the minister’s daughter—these com¬ 
pleted the whole personnel. They would also tell 
that Mosevig wore the strangest looking collars with 
his clerical garb because his wife had to do the flut¬ 
ing at home. 

Welde could, in his mind, see Mosevig speaking to 
the sparsely occupied pews, and he wondered how a 
family could subsist on five hundred dollars a year. 
He had never been able to rid his mind of this shabby 
and careworn figure. It confronted him in church, 
at prayers, and while in his study, and it always 
seemed to remind him of some wrong committed long 
ago—a debt which he could neither admit nor deny, 
a sort of claim which he could neither acknowledge 
nor yet refuse to recognize. But why this feeling? 
It could not possibly be his fault that Mrs. Mosevig 
had to sing in the choir with the baby in her arms, 
nor could he help that she had to do up her husband’s 
collars herself. Should he, a stranger, be blamed 
because these obstinate people persisted in maintain¬ 
ing a positively superfluous Lutheran church in town? 
Could he be held responsible for their minister’s faded 
coat and hat? Or for the reproach and suffering ex¬ 
pressed by that mouth and those jaws of his? No, 
No—the thought was absurd. But Pastor Mosevig 
had entered his mind as an accusation or protest 
against himself—against Rev. Conrad Walther Welde 
and against no one else. He tried to dismiss this fool- 


12 


Waldemar Ager 


ish feeling, telling himself over and over again that 
Mosevig was really of a type common in all denom¬ 
inations—ignorant and aggressive, a type of men who 
seek to make themselves conspicuous by a loud voice, 
sullenness, and disregard of personal appearance. This 
was an entirely satisfactory conclusion when in the 
company of others; but when Pastor Welde was 
alone, Mosevig would always rise before him in re¬ 
proach. This feeling increased whenever he was told 
that some of Mosevig’,s people had begun to attend 
his church. He could not bear the thought of taking 
anything away from one who had so little, and, after 
all, Pastor Mosevig preached the same Gospel and 
administered the same sacraments as Pastor Welde 
did. 


Pastor Welde had now reached home. Having no 
family, he made use only of two or three rooms, leav¬ 
ing the rest of the parsonage to the disposal of his 
trusty housekeeper, a very capable, elderly woman. 
She always had coffee ready for him when he returned 
from his habitual walks in the afternoon. She had 
kept house for two ministers in this country, and 
knew how things should be done. She arranged the 
dainty sandwiches on a small plate and appeared with 
the tray just as the minister was hanging up his coat 
and hat. His slippers were ready for him, not a speck 
of dust could be detected anywhere. Jorgina herself 
stood before him irreproachable, righteous, and grave 
of mien, holding the tray in her hand and courtesying. 
This was what the occasion demanded of her. Frank¬ 
ly, Welde liked neither her nor her coffee. He would 
have preferred a younger person, and a cup of tea. 
He had always noticed that tea-drinkers develope a 
taste for weaker tea the more they learn to appreciate 
it, while, on the other hand, coffee-drinkers increase 



Christ Before Pilate 


13 


both quantity and quality until it becomes positively 
harmful. He would have given a good deal for a cup 
of tea instead of the usual coffee, but had never dared 
to make a direct request for it. Jorgina herself, en¬ 
joyed a cup of coffee in the afternoon and would 
likely deny herself this if he did not also drink one. 
He had once bravely ventured the suggestion that 
some people prefer tea to coffee in the afternoon, but 
when Jorgina had flatly denied this he had dropped 
the subject and resigned himself to his fate. He 
even cracked jokes about it: 

“You spoil me with this delicious coffee of yours 
so I learn to like it—and to think that once upon a 
time I drank only tea!” 

With beaming face, Jorgina said: “Yes, the pastor 
knows there are two ways of making coffee. There 
is coffee and there is coffee. Pastor Wangel of the 
Synod wanted his coffee steeped, but Pastor Nelson 
of the United Church wanted it just the way we made 
it in Norway, just as strong as it could be made.” 
And as she filled his cup while her adoring gaze 
rested upon the clear, brown stream, she wondered if 
the minister noticed how clear it was. He felt that he 
ought to say something and ventured: 

“So they liked different kinds of coffee? You mean 
to say that they had different tastes with regard to 
coffee, do you? You and I stick to the Synod coffee, 
do we not?” but instantly he saw his mistake. 

With an injured air Jorgina set the cup down and 
pulled nervously at the corner of her apron. The 
minister felt that he had to make amends in some 
way; so he tasted the coffee, dropped a piece of sugar 
into it, and seemed lost in meditation. Then cautious¬ 
ly: “Pastor Nelson is still living, is he not?” 

“Still living? Why, yes, he is alive and well, as far 
as I know.” 


14 


Waldemar Ager 


'‘So he is still living, is he? Strange, is it not? Per¬ 
haps we had better drink the same kind of coffee that 
he did, it can be no worse for us than for him. He 
must be pretty old by this time?” 

He got no further, for Jorgina was already on her 
way out of the room, and as she vanished she sharply 
retorted: “Yes, perhaps the pastor also may live to 
be old, but it is very uncertain if I am to be much 
older in this place!” And the door closed with a bang. 

The minister ate his sandwiches in dismay. He 
had certainly acted like an ass. Why did he refer to 
age, anyway? Jorgina herself was old. Her wrinkled 
face was a veritable burial-place for dead hopes and 
prospects. She, too, no doubt, had had her dreams 
a score of years ago or more, two-score, perhaps. A 
score more or less would not matter much in a case 
like hers. He pondered for a while, and then, drain¬ 
ing his cup, he opened the door and called: “Jorgina?” 

“Yes, Sir!” The voice in the kitcheta sounded 
muffled. 

“May I have another cup of coffee?” There was 
a clatter of crockery, and she appeared in the door, 
holding the coffee pot in her hand. As she poured, 
her hand trembled slightly, but there was a smile on 
her lips. The victory was her’s. 

When she had gone the minister walked about the 
room, cup in hand, seeking for a place where he might 
pour it out and yet escape detection, but he gave it 
up. Besides, it did not seem quite fair to her, so he 
gulped it down, knowing that he would sacrifice half 
a night’s sleep. Then he dropped resolutely into his 
chair, murmuring: “Another such victory, and I am 
undone! Poor Pyrrhus!” Had Jorgina known that 
he had taken poison just to please her, she would not 
have flared up in such anger. He laughed to himself 
and lit a cigar. He did not smoke often, but after the 
coffee a cigar would always taste good. 


Christ Before Pilate 


15 


He remained a while before the open window. His 
life was really altogether too tranquil. All his parish¬ 
ioners were so kind and congenial—too kind, in fact, 
well-nigh carrying him on their hands. He was grow¬ 
ing spoiled, hopelessly spoiled. Yet there was enough 
work to do, work that ought to be taken up imme¬ 
diately. Something should be done, especially for the 
young people. He had thought of starting a society 
for them which would not be too exclusively religious, 
something of a rather literary nature, with debates, 
perhaps, and dialogs, recitations, readings, etc. Some¬ 
thing that would draw the young people to the church. 
He began to pace back and forth in the room, but 
could formulate no definite plan. Again Mosevig 
came before him with his thin beard and protruding 
mouth. He would have to gain this man’s good will, 
try to think of some way—try to let him understand. 
Well, what could he think of? What should he let him 
understand? He had done him no harm, and had 
nothing to explain. 

He paused as if in doubt before a picture on the 
wall. He had many pictures, some were framed and 
some were not. He loved pictures, and his room at 
home had been filled with them, as was also his room 
at college. Pictures, pictures everywhere! The pic¬ 
ture in front of which he was standing was conspic¬ 
uously large. It was a copy of the famous Muncaczy’s 
“Christ before Pilate,” which had been left there by 
the former pastor. He had often studied it and had 
made up his mind that this picture represented real 
art. At times he flattered himself that he was some¬ 
thing of an art critic, and would tell himself that the 
figure of Pilate on the judgment seat was out of pro¬ 
portion, that the left shoulder was too large, and that 
the left arm of the one who stood shouting was too 
long, and also the arm of the one who was pointing 


16 


Waldemar Ager 


from the background. But it was art; no doubt about 
that! There is Pilate, and before him Christ in His 
white raiment, while a Roman soldier with a lance 
forces the people, the mob, back. Around the tribune 
sit the priests and the Pharisees—where else should 
they be? A high priest to whom no one seems to 
listen is arraigning Jesus; in the rear a woman with a 
child in her arms emerges from the shadows. 

He had seen various types of people in this picture 
before. He had noted the cruel ones, the vulgar, the 
ignorant, the malicious, the thoughtless ones—all 
the different elements who wished Barabbas liberated. 
But now it was as if the picture took on a new aspect 
—it became more intensified, as he looked at it. There 
were really only two kinds of people there—the wo¬ 
man with the child excepted, of course—and they were 
those who had huge jaws and mouths and those who 
did not. It was Christ and Pilate—and certainly that 
woman with the child—against all the others. But 
as no one took any account of women in those days 
anyway, it was Christ and Pilate against all the rest. 
The mob was the Mosevigians, he thought with reck¬ 
less abandon. The whole “Crucify Him” crowd was 
a people with large snouts—or accumulations around 
the mouth—pressing forward. It was—yes, what else 
could it be?—it was surely the unhappy and oppressed 
Jewish people who had become enraged because Je¬ 
sus had not brought the long expected salvation from 
political bondage. Yes, it was the vast amount of 
hate and the suppressed accusations which the proud 
tribe of Judah had stored up for generations, back of 
their mouths. Look at that soldier’s lance! It has 
certainly taught them respect; but who thinks of that 
old lance now? And then the Jews with their keen 
intelligence. The Romans knew how to make them 
keep their mouths shut. The prophets were dead and 


Christ Before Pilate 


17 


gone. Grief, subdued hate, choked-down aspirations 
had pressed against the forcibly closed mouth and 
seemingly broken its moorings. Denied a voice poli¬ 
tically, they had swallowed their degradation and kept 
the bursting bag closely tied—and thus developed a 
terrible apparatus with which to cry “Crucify Him” 
—and to spit. 

The Irish had also such huge jaws and mouths, but 
their noses were next to nothing. They, too, were in 
political bondage and, as they had nearly always been 
so, they had failed to grow noses, just mouths. But 
the Hebrew nose had held its own, glory to Moses 
and the prophets! 

A bursting bag tied down—yes, that was the cause 
of such protruding mugs. 

Amused by his own reflections, the pastor again 
paced up and down the room, but finally made another 
pause before the picture: 

Yes, Christ and Pilate belonged to another race— 
or type, he corrected himself. Pilate represented the 
civil state in its highest potency—the world empire, 
the ruling, the organizing principle. Christ also rep¬ 
resented an empire, a kingdom, in its highest potency, 
that “which is found within you,” the most powerful 
of all kingdoms. The one represented order and power 
and civil justice, the other grace and love. Roman 
power had to be crushed, but it had given to the world 
a solid foundation for a well ordered political state 
and for civil laws. Christ had to suffer an igno¬ 
minious death, but He gave us eternal life and salvation 
thru faith in Him, His death, and resurrection to right¬ 
eousness. The world had never attained higher types 
than these. 

He walked to and fro for a while, but again re¬ 
turned to the picture. 

They should have been standing together, those 


18 


Waldemar Acer 


two, against the mob. Pilate appears to be perplexed, 
and Christ looks grave. The situation had made a 
different appeal to each of them. Pilate was groping 
for something which Jesus knew, or rather which 
Jesus Himself was. “What is truth?” he asked, not 
knowing that Jesus was the truth. They should have 
come to an understanding, these two—against the 
mob. Pilate should have made common cause with 
Christ, for he had the power. 

He paced the floor, but stopped abruptly. 

What would have been the fate of the crowd, the 
men with the protruding mouths and jaws, if Pilate 
and Christ had come to an understanding? 

How about that person Conrad Walther Welde? 
How about all those in bondage whom Christ had 
come to set free with His death and resurrection?— 
A Christianity without the cross, but with Latin law 
books—and lances. 

Why, yes—even that had been tried. 

It was those with the protruding mouths that Christ 
had come to save! With them He had spent His 
time, and from them He had chosen His apostles. 

“That which was lost,” that was what He had come 
to save—that for which the Roman empire cared 
nothing. 

Pastor Welded cigar was forgotten. Slowly he drew 
near the window and gazed for a long time at the lilac 
bushes in bloom. Jorgina had wanted to put a bo- 
quet of them on his table, but he detested cut flowers. 
They reminded him of funerals, but he gave of these 
flowers generously to others. 


CHAPTER II 


Pastor Welde had known since his earliest child¬ 
hood that he would become a minister, or had at least 
heard it from many others. This had placed a damper 
on his spirits while at play, so that he had, as a rule" 
been satisfied to watch the other children without tak¬ 
ing any part in their games himself. To him some 
children were good and others were bad. Those who 
were bad often caused the games to break up and 
end in quarrels and even in fights, and when this oc¬ 
curred, it fell to his lot to establish peace. That he 
was the son of a minister gave him authority; and 
he was large and well built, so that when called upon 
to separate two who were settling their differences 
in a fist fight, he would frequently forget himself and 
handle them so roughly that they would unite in a 
counter-attack upon him. Big and good-natured as 
he was, he would, as a rule, simply hold the two bel¬ 
ligerents off at a safe distance and let them bite and 
scratch until they were exhausted. If they grew too 
aggressive, he might throw them and hold them down 
for a while, but he could not beat them. He would 
afterwards seek to regain their favor and attempt to 
coax them back into good humor, but became in turn 
the object of their deepest contempt in spite of his 
superior physical strength. 

His father was a man of few words, and had received 
his academic training in Norway; a man with a deep, 
refined nature, who had crossed the ocean to cast his 
lot with his countrymen in their new home as soon 
as he learned that they were in crying need of spirit¬ 
ual guidance. On the other hand, the field was great¬ 
ly overcrowded in Norway. He felt this as his call, 


20 


Waldemar Ager 


and one day he and his young wife set sail for the 
new country amid much weeping and lamentations at 
the pier. It was his wife’s relatives who gathered for 
a demonstration against such an outrage. They were 
people of importance—some of the men wearing of¬ 
ficers’ uniforms, and holding high political offices in 
a city on the coast. Amid the rustling of silken drap¬ 
eries, indignant tears were shed into dainty, perfumed 
handkerchiefs. Had the aunts but known that Jo¬ 
han Welde contemplated anything like going to Am¬ 
erica, they would surely have prevented the alliance. 
Poor little Laura would now in all likelihood be scalped 
by the Indians or made to suffer at the stake. They 
had all read “The Pathfinder’’ and others of Cooper’s 
Indian tales, and knew what was in store. To think 
that Welde could do a thing like that! 

But on deck stood the “poor little Laura,” pitying 
the aunts because they pitied her. She had begun to 
breathe more freely as soon as she came aboard. She 
had not understood quite all that Welde had told her 
about the necessity of having someone from home to 
look after the spiritual needs of the emigrants, that 
they might stick to their church and religious tradi¬ 
tions and not get adrift amid the new conditions; and 
her relatives had not understood any of it, but she 
knew that her husband was right. She could see it 
in the very gleam of his eye, the expression about his 
mouth, the outlines of his figure, and the waves of his 
hair. She could see it in the way he squared his mas¬ 
sive shoulders when he had his back turned, and in 
his firm stride when he walked; and she would gladly 
have followed him to the ends of the earth. Should 
one like him wrestle with other candidates for an ap¬ 
pointment as pastor’s assistant there at home? One 
like him? Not much! 

They found their field of labor in Wisconsin. A 


Christ Before Pilate 


21 


little house had been built for them, consisting of only 
one room partitioned by a curtain. On one side of 
the curtain were the parlor, the study, and the bed¬ 
room, while on the other the livingroom, diningroom, 
and kitchen. The minister made book shelves under 
the ceiling from rough boards, and these were filled 
with books in Morocco adorned with red and green 
vignettes, and theological works in black and gold. 
Here he prepared his sermons with the greatest care. 
He could not have put more work on them even if 
they had been intended for a metropolitan congrega¬ 
tion. Into this room the farmers came for advice and 
to discuss the affairs of the church, the poor to receive 
help, and the rich their admonition, while sorrowful 
and sin-burdened souls came for consolation. And 
all who came were invited over to the other side of 
the partition for a cup of Mrs. Welde’s coffee. The 
parson’s cultured little wife strove hard not to give 
offence with her refined manners, for there were a few 
formidable dames among the women of the church 
who gave her to understand that in this country all 
are just “common people.” But when the wee little 
wife of the parson, in her effort to give a full measure 
of service, finally presented her husband with a son 
weighing fifteen pounds, then her position was secure. 

The minister would often have to travel forty or 
fifty miles over bad roads to reach his scattered 
flocks, while his wife remained in the little log cabin 
alone with the little boy and listened to the splashing 
of the rain and the roar of the wind, and thought 
of her husband who was out in the storm. At such 
times she gave the Lord many a promise on condition 
that her husband should return home in safety, and 
the promise most frequently given was that her boy 
should enter His service when he grew up. She kept 
a light in the window and used fuel unsparingly, but 


22 


Waldemar Ager 


when the tramp dog, a stray mongrel, who had chosen 
the parsonage as his home, began to bark, and she 
heard the sound of horses’ hoofs and saw the glow of 
the minister’s pipe in the distance, and when he him¬ 
self soon after came trudging in, rain-soaked or half- 
frozen, but safe and sound and cheerful, all her anxiety 
was forgotten. On his return he would often bring 
with him a sack of potatoes or a piece of bacon, or 
even a dressed calf that the farmers had given him. 
He learned to appreciate such evidences of spiritual 
life in the members of his flock. They meant more to 
him than weeping testimonies. A greater willingness 
to give—that was something tangible. And a large 
share of what was thus given to him was in turn given 
to the poor families who had recently settled there as 
immigrants. 

During those first years Mrs. Welde often heard 
from her aunts in the old country. Her own letters 
were overflowing with happiness, but she did not con¬ 
ceal from her folks that she and Pastor Welde were 
poor and lived like other people in a new settlement, 
where poverty was the usual condition. After that it 
was the aunts who busied themselves by scalping 
“poor little Laura.” 

In the meantime Welde’s church grew, the work 
expanded, and his life was made easier. A beautiful 
parsonage was erected near his largest church, in 
which he could receive his people, and his wife had 
her “parlor” like the well-to-do farmers’ wives in the 
neighborhood. But she never forgot those first trying 
years when she, in spite of everything, had been so 
happy. Her husband was as yet always occupied, but 
so little was required of her now. He alone made 
sacrifices. So she thought—and in his study sat her 
husband and brooded over the good old days when he 
was permitted to make sacrifices. Now he lived in 


Christ Before Pilate 


23 


ease and grew stout, while his wife sacrificed herself 
thru the increased care of a larger household. And 
each felt envious of the other. 

Such were the conditions under which Conrad 
Walther Welde had grown to manhood. 

Even while they still lived in the log cabin he had 
been led to realize that his lot was easy, while nearly 
everyone else suffered hardships. His parents often 
spoke of how heartless the farmers were in the treat¬ 
ment of both their children and their animals; of how 
filthy they sometimes were, and how poorly they 
managed their affairs. They would speak of how, 
if the farmers would only be a little considerate, they 
might make life so much easier for each other, and 
how they suffered from the consequences of their own 
bad temper and actions. This was never breathed 
outside of the walls of the little cabin, but the boy 
saw his mother’s tears and his father’s indignation, 
and this was stored up in his memory. 


He was happy now that the goal had been reached 
and he had been called to a church of his own. His 
father’s position in the Synod as well as his own repu¬ 
tation had secured for him what was considered to be 
one of the most prosperous churches to be had. The 
president of the Synod had congratulated him upon 
having been called to serve a church where everything 
was so well organized, and all seemed in readiness for 
him. Conrad Welde had squared his powerful shoul¬ 
ders at this. He would have gone just as willingly 
to a new mission field in the West or in Canada. 

He had been well received and had found the work 
in good condition. He felt conscious of a certain help¬ 
lessness, especially when he remembered his able pre¬ 
decessor, but he was happy in his work. It was a 
blessed moment for him when he conducted the ser- 



24 


Waldemar Ager 


vice before the altar, the well-trained chorus leading 
the responses so that the church seemed to vibrate 
with powerful harmony. There he felt perfectly self- 
confident, his soul was gripped and carried to sublime 
heights. The congregation seemed to vanish as it 
were: he was the mediator between it and God. He 
prepared his sermons with great care, lest he might 
put into them something of his own. Only the Word 
of God, free from all man-made rhetoric, was what 
he desired to preach. 

It had all been so full of promise, and the work 
seemed to make great progress. But a shadow had 
suddenly fallen across his path, the shadow of a raw- 
boned, shabbily dressed man with a bent back and a 
sparse beard, a man to whom he in some inexplicable 
manner owed a satisfaction; one who had a claim 
against him which he was unable to pay. 


CHAPTER III 


Pastor Welde was walking back and forth in his of¬ 
fice in a very satisfied frame of mind. Jorgina had 
been completely vanquished the previous day, had had 
glowing coals heaped upon her head by his request 
for an additional cup of coffee. Today she had been 
unusually amiable. He chuckled to himself thru the 
cigar smoke. A diplomat, that’s what he was. 
He should have been minister to Russia or some other 
cantankerous country and averted war. 

By right he should have stood on his dignity and 
done what another would have done in his place: 
shown the presumptuous person out of the room and 
proceeded to drink tea; but his large body was but 
poorly trained for any kind of physical retaliation. 
As a boy he had been strong for his age, and things 
that he picked up were apt to break in his hands. If 
he slapped the younger children or took hold of them 
in any way, he would always be too rough. “Conrad, 
now you must be careful!”—He could still hear his 
mother’s voice. It used to indicate all the varying 
degrees from a mild admonition to a threat which 
meant a whipping when his father came home. If 
she emphasized “now,” it was a warning in the third 
degree; an accent on “you” placed it in the second 
degree; one on “careful” meant the first degree; while 
an accented “must” was a threat in the second, but 
an even stress on each word was unquestionably 
a threat in the first degree. And thus he had learned 
to be careful. He never dared to strike back even if 
a couple of angry little fellows jumped at him, as he 
could not bear the thought that they might get hurt. 
But he noted with a certain satisfaction that he had 


26 


Waldemar Ager 


been shown considerable respect by some little row¬ 
dies who had used both rocks and sticks and who were 
jubilant whenever they succeeded in hitting their 
mark. 

He also recalled how they had been after him at 
college to join the football team. They had felt of 
the muscles of his legs and pinched him in various 
places and prophesied that he would be a star. He 
had himself believed that he might be good for some¬ 
thing like that had it only not been required of him 
that he should knock others down and run across 
their bodies, perhaps breaking their arms and legs, 
and listen to the applause of the crowd when he waded 
thru opponents. Those things were evidently not 
in his line. 

'‘That is right, my boy,” an old minister had once 
said to him while on a visit at the home of his parents, 
“Jesus never did strike back, and you wish to be like 
Him, do you not?” He had nodded his head at this 
—hypocrite that he felt himself to be. With him it 
was not piety as much as cowardice. His playmates 
were too frail for rough handling, he imagined, but 
they were not much hampered by frailties when they 
could be up to tricks. One childhood incident after 
another passed before his mind. They certainly had 
deserved a whipping. Well, they did get whipped 
anyway, poor fellows! On Sunday mornings he had 
heard them howl, as it was generally on Sunday morn¬ 
ings that the parents had time to attend to that part 
of their parental duties, and both parents and children 
would arrive at church with their faces reflecting their 
newly acquired righteousness! 

Pastor Welde yawned and stretched himself to his 
full height, and swung his arms by way of gymnastics. 
He felt as tho he would like to fight something. He 
ought to get a punching-bag, something to pound with 


Christ Before Pilate 


27 


all his might, something that would neither cry out 
nor crumble when he struck hard. Or something to 
lift or pull at. There are so many objects of this kind. 

A noise in the kitchen attracted his attention. It 
was from an armful of wood which Jorgina dumped 
into the woodbox. What if he went out and filled the 
woodbox for her? He felt willing even to pay for 
the privilege of doing it, but what would she say? 
That would naturally depend upon what Pastor Wan- 
gel of the Synod and Pastor Nelson of the United 
Church would have done under similar circumstances. 
He pondered a while. Jorgina had to be handled 
carefully, diplomatically. While he was speculating 
on this, he heard another rumble. Armful number 
two. No use now, the woodbox was already full. 

He paced back and forth for a while, then threw 
the half-smoked cigar into the fire and opened the 
door out upon the porch to air the room. Then he 
put on his black coat and sat down at his desk, as it 
was time for his study hours. Noticing a spot on his 
coat sleeve, he began to rub it vigorously. He had a 
passion for removing stains. He then bowed his head 
and said the Lord’s Prayer in silence. His study 
hours were part of his professional duties. Now he 
was the pastor in his official capacity. 


CHAPTER IV 


Jorgina was bustling about in the front room, dust¬ 
ing the furniture. Everything had to be immaculate. 
That was the way it had been at Wangel’s, of the 
Synod, and at Nelson’s, of the United Church. She 
then retired to the kitchen, where she kept the bright¬ 
ly polished coffee-pot steaming hot. The minister 
himself received those who made calls. 

He helped them remove their outer garments and 
talked about the weather, then led them into his 
study or found them places to wait in the front room 
if the study was occupied. Those who were in very 
much of a hurry had their business attended to in the 
hall. He always seemed to have time for everybody. 

One woman came to arrange for a christening, then 
another, and still another. That never took very long, 
and after the necessary arrangements had been made 
he would usher them into the kitchen, where Jorgina 
was ready to tell them about the two kinds of coffee, 
guide them into a true appreciation of the correct 
kind, and receive their thanks as they passed down 
the kitchen steps. 

Then a laboring man came, bringing a petition for 
a job as janitor at one of the schools, which he wanted 
the minister to sign. He came holding a button in 
his hand, which had come off when he unbuttoned 
his coat on the stairs to get out his papers so as to 
have them in readiness. Like all everyday people 
he began talking first about the thing that had last 
happened. The minister examined the button and 
the place where it had been fastened. “I’ll sew this 
on for you in less than a minute,” he said. “I am a 


Christ Before Pilate 


29 


bachelor, you know, and have had considerable exper¬ 
ience in this line.” 

The man protested vigorously. His wife could do it. 

“But I want you to get this button fastened so it 
will stay,” the minister laughed. “It takes a six- 
year college course to learn to sew on a button de¬ 
cently.” 

At last the man laughingly pulled off his coat and 
revealed a pair of very dirty shirt-sleeves. Before 
handing over the coat he took out a package of tobac¬ 
co done up in yellow paper and also a charred corn¬ 
cob pipe and glanced furtively about the room. The 
minister got up and brought a box of cigars. There 
were two boxes. One, a genuine Havana, he handed 
him. The man took it and turned it around with his 
rough fingers. “Much obliged,” he finally said. The 
minister gave him a light and pushed out the best 
chair for him, then found a needle and thread in a 
drawer in his desk. “This is a secret,” he explained, 
“the housekeeper is somewhat old and her eye-sight 
is failing, so I have these things here without her 
knowing anything about it.” He was slightly near¬ 
sighted and had to get the right focus before he could 
thread the needle. “We will now proceed with this 
important piece of tailoring,” he said with a profes¬ 
sional air as he spread out the coat. The man had 
wrapped himself in a cloud of smoke and sat bending 
forward with his hands between his knees and doing 
some thinking of his own. The minister surely meant 
business by all this. 

“I don’t belong to the church,” he said, “but I have 
thought of joining. One sort of ought to belong 
somewhere in that line,” he added philosophically. 

The pastor did not answer. He seemed absorbed in 
his work. The visitor was perplexed: 

“I have thought a good deal of sending the kids 


30 


Waldemar Ager 


to Sunday School,” he continued, ‘‘my woman has said 
to me, time and again she has said: ‘John/ says she— 

The doorbell rang, and the minister laid the coat 
aside and left the room. There was quite a fuss in 
the hall. The chug-chug of an automobile could be 
heard outside. 

Banker Brooten and Dr. Spohr entered. They were 
in high spirits and pushed each other into the room. 
Like one perfectly at home, Mr. Brooten picked up 
the minister's cigar box and passed it around. His 
presence seemed to fill the whole office. 

“Be seated, gentlemen/’ the minister said, “I’ll 
soon be at liberty.” They could scarcely believe their 
eyes when they saw him pick up the coat and begin 
to sew. Their glances passed from the minister to the 
laborer and back again. Then the doctor burst out 
laughing. “I never saw the like,” he said, “are you 
a tailor, too?” The minister joined in the laugh. “I 
merely wanted to show him that a Lutheran minister 
can sew on a buton so it will stay,” he said, pulling 
quite hard at the thread. 

“I never saw the like,” Brooten, too, exclaimed. 
“But then,” he added, “you are not the only one.” And 
he turned up the edge of his vest and tugged at a but¬ 
ton on his trousers. “I have fastened this on myself,” 
he said, “and I can actually feel how the whole weight 
of my whole trousers rests on this one button.” 

They all laughed; but the laborer was ruminating. 
In his home it was always his wife who sewed on the 
buttons. 

“I have a weakness with regard to buttons,” Pastor 
Welde said, as he wound the thread around the but¬ 
ton and fastened the end on the under side. “But 
there is another button missing, so I had better put 
one there at the same time,” and he searched in a box 
for a button to match. 


Christ Before Pilate 


31 


“You seem to have everything right a hand,” laugh¬ 
ed Brooten. 

“Why, yes,” the minister answered with a smile, 
rt I think a person should always take care of his but¬ 
tons. My grandmother had a collection of them con¬ 
sisting of several boxes, part of which were brought 
over from Norway. I expect to fall heir to them some 
day.” 

They all laughed boisterously. 

“Well, they might come in handy and be of great 
use for a minister,” the doctor began. “When you 
see, for instance, one who comes to Communion un¬ 
worthily, with a missing button, all you need to do 
is to say: ‘Pst!’ and beckon him into the vestry and 
sew the button on for him and he will be truly pre¬ 
pared !” 

Again their laughter filled the room. 

“It is not altogether laughable either,” the minister 
said. “My mother’s people in Norway were of what 
they styled ‘the better class,’ and when my grand¬ 
mother came over to live with us, her buttons were 
just about all that remained of her family grandeur. 
But in my opinion grandmother’s buttons did more 
to keep the Willow Prairie Church together during 
the time of the great church controversy than all my 
father’s syntax. Father was a theologian from Nor¬ 
way, as you know, and in spite of being such a kind 
and good man as he was, there always remained a 
touch of the dictator about him; but the women of the 
church came to grandmother to get buttons from her, 
‘of the same kind,’ they would say. And she could 
always find some that resembled the ones that were 
lost. In her collection were silver buttons which 
had been worn by a powerful landowner, her paternal 
grandfather. There were brass buttons bearing the 
design of a crown, which had ben worn by her other 


32 


Waldemar Ager 


grandfather, who had been a general in the army. 
She had buttons from her own father’s uniform, and 
buttons bearing all manner of insignia. While she 
was sorting out the plainer buttons she was elabor¬ 
ating on the family history; the farmers’ wives went 
home deeply impressed. Added to her own collection 
was my mother’s of a later date, and the Welde fam¬ 
ily was spread about the settlement with the buttons. 
Farmers and farmers’ wives were wearing buttons 
that had been worn by the Weldes, and had they not 
remained faithful to Pastor Welde’s party the buttons 
would have become almost worthless.” 

He smiled half sadly as he continued: “Grandmother 
belonged to one of those old aristocratic families which 
finally lost everything. All she had left was her but¬ 
tons. She brought them out and looked at them and 
fondled them so many a time when she felt sad, and 
she enjoyed telling about the silk gowns and the red 
patent-leather slippers and the gay little parties of 
her childhood.” 

The buttons were at last sewed on and the laborer’s 
petition signed. Brooten also placed his name there 
with an air that seemed intended to convey to the 
man what that really meant. Welde went with him 
out into the hall. The man seemed dazed. “I do not 
belong to the church,” he began again, “but I have 
thought of”—then he remembered that he had said 
the same thing before. “My woman has been saying 
time and again that we must send the kids to Sunday 
School.” Suddenly he remembered that he had said 
that also. “I am rather handy with things around 
the house,” he began, “so that if the minister has any 
little jobs that need to be done, any wood to be sawed 
or anything like that, I’d be glad to come over and do 
it, evenings or Sundays—.” Then he remembered 
that it was not considered right to do those things on 


Christ Before Pilate 


33 


Sundays, and remained irresolute standing in the 
doorway. ‘‘I have sometimes taken a drink,” he tried 
next, “but TO quit, and I have been swearing, too. 
That is an awful habit, but after this—.” 

The minister pushed him out gently without listen¬ 
ing further to his protestations and dismissed him 
with a movement of the hand. “If you get that job,” 
he said, “you must conduct yourself in such a man¬ 
ner that we who signed your petition will have no rea¬ 
son to regret our having helped you.” 

The door was closed, but the man was still stand¬ 
ing outside with his shapeless hat in his hand. Then 
he felt of his buttons, straightened himself up, and 
went into the nearest saloon to tell about his exper¬ 
ience and to get more signatures. 

When Rev. Mr. Welde returned to his study, he 
found the doctor over by the book-case and Brooten 
standing near the window. 

“The poor fellow evidently thought that it was for 
the sake of saving his soul that I did him that little 
favor,” he said, “but had I known that—.” 

“You would have let his ‘woman’ sew on his but¬ 
tons for him, would you not?” interrupted Brooten. 

“Most assuredly! There are some who consider 
a minister of the Gospel to be just an ordinary busi¬ 
ness man. They simply cannot imagine anyone doing 
them any service unless there is some hidden motive 
for it, some form of self-seeking,” the minister an¬ 
swered. And then he added as if apologetically: “But 
that is the way they have been brought up. It is 
quite a risky matter to offer anyone any kind of help. 
I remember when I was in St. Louis to polish up on 
my German, and, of course, my theology also, that I 
was out one evening, and when crossing a bridge I 
saw an old, feeble woman carrying a basket of po¬ 
tatoes. She was struggling along with it, shuffling 


34 


Waldemar Ager 


and panting and changing it from one hand to the 
other. When I had watched her for a while, I thought 
what a shame it was for a big fellow like myself not 
to carry the basket for her as I was going in the same 
direction. So I took hold of her basket and tried to 
be as pleasant as possible to her; but what do you 
suppose she did? She seized the handle of the basket 
with both hands and held on to it and screamed at the 
top of her voice. She thought that I would run away 
with her potatoes. I tried both English and German, 
but she understood neither. She only jammed her 
toothless gums together and held the basket like this,” 
and he demonstrated her grip on the basket by taking 
hold of Brooten’s arm until the portly banker both 
laughed and squirmed. “Then in a minute,” he con¬ 
tinued, “a crowd had collected, and strangely enough, 
there did not seem to be one person who believed me 
when I tried to explain matters. They would in all 
probability have thrown me into the river had they 
not felt that it was wisest to let a big fellow like me 
off with a good scare. But, now, it is really sad that 
such conditions exist. How harshly the world must 
have dealt with a woman before she could get that 
way.” 

Brooten had grown serious. “I have also, at least 
formerly, upon occasions, tried to help people, but 
if you are not careful, my dear sir, they will actually 
take advantage and fly up at you. The best way is 
to let people take care of themselves; that is what I 
have had to do. That is perhaps, too, the reason why 
it is so easy to rai>se money for the heathens. If you 
give the Hottentots a lift you will never have them 
hanging around your office for all time afterwards 
pestering you. If you stoop to tie a shoestring for a 
certain class of people, they will invariably take it to 
be an invitation for them to wipe their feet on you. 


Christ Before Pilate 


35 


Yes, sir, that is what they will do. You don’t get 
much thanks for it, but you may get a little mud 
thrown at you instead. Isn’t that so, Spohr?” 

The doctor nodded to him from his place near the 
book case. As Brooten was talking, he was busy 
polishing his fingernails. Theodora, the oldest daugh¬ 
ter, was forever giving advice about his nails. 

Now, then, as to his errand. He had come express¬ 
ly to invite the minister for an auto-ride the follow¬ 
ing day. Had just ordered a fine machine from De¬ 
troit. It seemed that one had to indulge in such new¬ 
fangled follies nowadays. It was principally Mrs. 
Brooten and the girls that had insisted on it. Had 
a good chauffeur, really an expert. Now was the time 
to enjoy it—in a few years autos would be common. 

The banker and the physician took a rather hasty 
leave as the door bell rang. The new caller was a 
woman of the middle class, with whom they all shook 
hands very cordially, and upon inquiry found that all 
the members of her family were well. 

Mrs. Andrew Thompson’s plump little person was 
placed in a chair which the pastor very courteously 
offered her. She opened her bag carefully and took 
out a very neatly folded handkerchief, raised her veil 
and wiped her merry little nose. All this took time. 
She had always talked to the old pastor as a daughter 
would, and he had been like a father to her. At this 
thought the handkerchief had to be brought up to the 
eyes. The new minister was so young and appeared 
so embarrassed that she felt that she could.almost ad¬ 
dress him as a son, but thought herself scarcely old 
enough for that. She had been compelled to drop one 
role without having been assigned to another; but 
the minister’s kind inquiry as to whether there was 
anything that he could do for her, soon set them 
both at ease. 


36 


Waldemar Ager 


Really, the pastor had to pardon her for coming, but 
it was about this lutefisk supper that the ladies’ aid 
society was going to give. She was supposed to be 
president of the society, had been opposed to it her¬ 
self, but had been almost forced into accepting the 
office, tho there were so many who were more com¬ 
petent than she, and then, besides that, she had all 
her little ones to take care of—the youngest was only 
two and a half. 

The minister interrupted her by saying that he had 
heard that she was the best worker in the women’s 
aid society. This was stoutly denied by Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son herself, as there was, for instance, Mrs. Berven, 
who had recently come over from Norway. 

When she mentioned Mrs. Berven, she made a 
slight pause and made use of her handkerchief again. 
She would have given a great deal to have known 
Pastor Welde’s personal opinion of Mrs. Berven, but 
he pretended not to hear. 

Then, more directly: “Well, the pastor no doubt 
knows Mrs. Berven?” 

“Hm, yes,—no, well, I have no doubt seen her. She 
is rather small and dark, I believe, with a sharp 
nose—.” 

“You mean a sharp tongue.” This came abruptly, 
her handkerchief suspended half way up to her nose 
as if detained by an invisible hand. 

The pastor laughed good-naturedly. “Perhaps so. 
I do not know her myself. It is Jorgina and Mrs. 
Brooten and several others whom I have heard men¬ 
tion you in such laudatory terms.” 

Mrs. Thompson seemed entirely won over by this 
admission. Jorgina and Mrs. Brooten were the very 
ones whose opinion she valued most highly. She 
then explained her chief errand. She had been out 
selling tickets for the supper until she did not know 


Christ Before Pilate 


37 


what Andrew, her husband, would say, altho he never 
used to say anything when she was working for the 
church. She had practically had to take over the 
whole charge of this lutefisk supper, and if only all 
the other women would help her, she felt certain that 
they would have a good crowd. She had sold over 
fifty tickets already and had been promised coffee at 
Holm’s grocery and cream from Olson’s, and the 
Dane, Jensen, had promised her sugar and butter. One 
of the women in the society had agreed to bake the 
“lefse,” and she had secured the promise of twenty- 
eight cakes, but wanted at least twelve more. She 
could think of nothing worse than to run short of any¬ 
thing at a supper. She also intimated that some 
women brought cakes that were not fit to be placed 
before people. Of course it was not right of her to 
talk about others—but that last social at the parish 
house—the one that Mrs. Berven had managed— 
well, she had felt so mortified! She herself always 
planned to leave the cakes that did not look very nice 
to the last, and if any were left over there were plenty 
of poor people who were glad to get them, but some 
of the women always managed so that the best cakes 
were left over, and it was not the poor that got them 
either! 

The minister listened to her very attentively. But 
having been brought up in a parsonage, he was too 
well versed in the practical side of church work to 
underestimate the value of a member like Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son. It was just such women as she who filled the 
depleted church treasuries. She was known as the 
most energetic and self-sacrificing woman in his 
church. 

“Perhaps I talk too much,” she said, as her eyes 
rested for the twentieth time on the spool of thread 
and the button box on the table.—Black linen thread? 


38 


Waldemar Ager 


Dear me! Wasn’t Jorgina even able to sew buttons 
on the minister’s clothes? 

“My dear Mrs. Thompson, talk as much as you like,” 
he said genially. “You are one of my most patient 
listeners when I preach on Sundays. Since I came 
here you have always been in your place in church.” 

Her face took on a devout expression. A woman 
was not able to accomplish very much, but if they 
all worked together, it would count up. “But,” with 
a sigh, “there are always a few who have to do every¬ 
thing.” 

The minister was called to the door, and Mrs. 
Thompson made use of the time in examining the 
room more closely. Jorgina was certainly a neat 
housekeeper, not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. 
She wondered if the minister knew anything about 
the surprise party that was planned for him the fol¬ 
lowing evening. She almost had a desire to tell him 
just to spite Mrs. Berven. There that she-devil had 
gone to work to get up a party for the minister when 
she knew that Mrs. Thompson was busy with the 
supper. It made her so angry to think of what could 
have been done had there only been a little more time 
so that one thing had not been piled right on top 
of the other, the way it had been done. Well, things 
had to take their own course now. The minister 
seemed to be nice, a very nice man, but he was dif¬ 
ferent from the old minister. There was something 
aristocratic about Welde, and yet on the other hand 
he was so plain and frank, too, that one never thought 
of how much of an aristocrat he really was. 

Pastor Welde returned, and Mrs. Thompson di¬ 
vulged her real mission. She had come to see if 
Jorgina could help her a little. Jorgina was so neat 
and cleanly, and so very competent. There was so 
much work in connection with that lutefisk and 


Christ Before Pilate 


39 


she could not very well sell tickets and attend to ev¬ 
erything else. Now, if the pastor—that is, provided 
Jorgina herself was willing—could persuade her to 
help a little with the lutefisk, she knew she could man¬ 
age the rest herself. But it would be better if the 
minister would talk to her himself and not let on that 
she had spoken to him about it. Old people were 
rather difficult to deal with in such matters. The 
minister agreed with her in this and was going to 
show her right into the living room from the office 
so that she might get a chance to talk to Jorgina, but 
Mrs. Thompson did not let on that she noticed this 
and went into the hall and rapped on the door. It 
would not do to let Jorgina know that she had been 
in the study first. That might spoil everything. 

When she had gone a man came to see the pastor 
about the place as janitor at the school. He was a 
quiet, sober working man, one of the most honest 
and exemplary members of the church. He said that 
he needed just that kind of a job. His wages at the 
mill were insufficient, and he had had considerable 
sickness in his family. Besides, he had noticed lately 
that he could not stand outdoor work in the winter 
time much longer. He knew that he could do the work 
that was required, and it would be a great help if he 
could get the job. He and his wife had prayed about 
it together, and their youngest boy had prayed the 
Lord the evening before to please let his father get 
that job. If the pastor would be so kind as to make 
out a petition for him and sign his name and also get 
a few others to sign, he felt sure that he would get it. 
The man’s honest brown eyes were turned appealingly 
to the face of his pastor. But Welde was silent. Only 
a moment ago he had signed a petition for another 
man, a perfect stranger, one who thought that he had 
helped him only for the sake of getting him to join 


40 


Waldemar Ager 


the church. Why had he not shown him the door? 
But perhaps it could yet be straightened out. As soon 
as his study hours were over he would go and see 
Brooten. It might not yet be too late. So he gave 
the man his hand and said: “It is possible that some¬ 
thing may be done, but if you fail it will be my fault. 
But I will try to help you in some way if I cam” 

The man was twirling his cap between his hands, 
and his face showed his inner struggle. “Yes, yes,” he 
said, “it is in God’s hands. But what do you think 
I can say to my wife and to our youngest boy when 
I get home? Is there any hope at all, do you think?” 

It was as tho he begged for his life. Pastor Welde 
could feel his heart pound. Perhaps something could 
yet be done. He could not let the man go away with¬ 
out any hope, so he said: “I acted foolishly, but you 
may feel sure that if it is within human power to get 
you a position, either this or some other similar work, 
I shall certainly do it.” 

“Thanks! I thank you ever so much!” His voice 
was scarcely audible. 

When he left, Pastor Welde stood watching him go. 
He was deeply moved. It was as tho he had done the 
man an injury, and he felt that the man himself also 
looked at it in that light. He walked back and forth 
in his study, and then, looking at his watch, said to 
himself that in another half hour he would be on his 
way to Brooten. Perhaps he could help him. 

A woman came next. She threw herself down in a 
chair and began telling that she was so unhappy, that 
she did not know what she should do. She had prayed 
and prayed, but her cross was so hard to bear. 

Pastor Welde asked sympathetically what her 
trouble was. 

“My husband will not let me love Jesus,” she said. It 
came with the force of an explosion and was followed 


Christ Before Pilate 


41 


by a torrent of words: “He will not let me pray, nor 
sing, nor read God’s Word, nor praise my Lord and 
Savior. I don’t know what I shall do,” and she ram¬ 
bled on. 

She was young and quite handsome, and the flood 
of tears which accompanied her words made the min¬ 
ister feel ill at ease. “Oh, but my good woman,” he 
said, “you must not carry on like this. It may come 
out alright. It surely will come out alright. My dear 
woman, you must—.” She grew hysterical and be¬ 
gan to call out: 

“Oh, Savior, help me, help me!” 

The minister was afraid she might faint, and he 
fidgetted helplessly about and asked if he might not 
give her some water, and at once poured her a glass 
from a pitcher. She panted like a child who has had 
a crying spell, and he first thought that he would 
call Jorgina, but then he asked her to get up and he 
led her to the door out upon the porch, thinking that 
she might sit out there and get some fresh air. She 
was still panting. “Sit down out here,” he said gent¬ 
ly, and as he caught sight of the lilacs, he continued: 
“Sit down and look at my flowers. Pick all you like, 
and you must try to be patient with your husband. 
What God has joined together He will not put asun¬ 
der. You must try to love Jesus in such a way that 
your husband also will learn to love Him.” 

“No, no,” she wailed, “he only gets worse and 
worse.” At this she again burst into tears and threw 
herself against the minister as tho she were at the 
point of falling. He got the impression of something 
soft, flabby, and repulsive leaning on him. He led 
her back into the room and got her to sit down. He 
tried to overcome his feeling of disgust and endeav¬ 
ored to give her some consolation. He said: “Is 
your husband unkind to you?” 


42 


Waldemar Ager 


“No, no,” she said, “he is as kind and good a man 
as anyone can be, but he will not listen to me.” 

“Well, can’t you stop troubling him, then?” 

“No, I can’t,” she sobbed. 

The minister went over to the door and called Jorg- 
ina. “You will have to take charge of this woman,” 
he said. “I have come to the same conclusion as her 
husband, I will not listen to her,” he added to him¬ 
self with an unaccustomed harshness in his voice. 

When Jorgina entered the room, the woman revived 
in a remarkably short time, and soon swept out of the 
house with an air as if she were on her way to a bar¬ 
gain sale. But she was angry with the minister— 
she, perhaps the only one in the whole rotten church 
who had found Jesus—to be treated like that! 

Without waiting for his supper, Pastor Welde 
started out to find Mr. Brooten and speak to him about 
that vacant janitor job. He found him in his garden 
and opened the subject immediately. He had gather¬ 
ed that the person whose petition they had signed in 
his study that day was a drinking man, and now there 
was Thorvald Larson—Mr. Brooten surely knew him 
—who also wanted the place. He repeated what Lar¬ 
son had said about his health and his and his wife’s 
prayers and about the little boy. He talked himself 
warm. “I feel that Larson is the man who ought to 
get that place, and we should have helped him instead 
of the other one. You are a business man and know 
all about these things and you can surely find a way 
out of this. I did not know that the first man drank, 
and I depended on your judgment.” 

Brooten was chewing at his meerschaum thought¬ 
fully. “I knew mighty well what I was doing,” he 
said. “That man has a good standing in the biggest 
lodge in the city, the Woodmens’, and they patronize 
our bank. He has considerable political influence in 


Christ Before Pilate 


43 


his ward, and especially among the class with which 
you and I have no influence whatever—the saloon ele¬ 
ment. I can do nothing for Larson now; that is utter¬ 
ly impossible. He is a good enough man, a very good 
man for that matter, but he never gets anywhere. He 
is always struggling with poverty and sickness and 
complaints of all kinds, and does not have any influ¬ 
ence at all. I guess we have to let it stand as it is.” 

“Then I must see what I can do alone,” the minister 
said firmly. 

“All right, go ahead and make a fool of yourself!” 
Brooten said with a slight sneer, “but remember that 
your name is on that petition together with mine— 
and when your name is no longer there, mine will re¬ 
main there alone, instead of both names being to¬ 
gether.” 

“But we ought to recommend the best man of the 
two.” 

“The man I recommend is always the best man.” 

“You mean the best man for you.” 

“Exactly.” 

“'Well, you will kindly pardon me if I go and make 
a fool of myself by trying to do what I consider to be 
the right thing.” 

“Well, yes, if you consider it right to go back on 
your own signature, there is nothing more to do about 
that.” 

Welde was already at the end of the garden path. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Brooten!” 

“Good luck to you, Welde,” and the banker’s broad 
figure began mounting the steps to the house. 

Pastor Welde then went to the school commissioner 
for the ward, to present his cause. He was a German, 
a former saloonkeeper, who was now conducting a 
real estate business and was trying to gain recogni¬ 
tion among the better element of the city. To this 


44 


Waldemar Ager 


end his election to the office of school commissioner 
had helped considerably. He was very glad to see 
the minister, and became even more pleased when 
Welde spoke to him in the German language. Welde 
explained the situation, and the commissioner was 
himself of the opinion that a drinking man ought not 
to get the appointment as janitor. He was very ac¬ 
commodating. Pastor Welde’s refined manners and his 
perfect German impressed him, and he had, in fact, 
been wondering if it was good policy to employ as 
janitor one who was a toper, considering what his 
own occupation formerly had been. It seemed to have 
penetrated his muddled brain that in order to rehabili¬ 
tate himself he needed the support of the minister, 
and he readily promised to put the matter before the 
board at its next meeting. The manner in which he 
gave this promise caused Pastor Welde to breathe a 
fervent prayer of thanksgiving on his way home. 

On Main Street he met the man who had first come 
to speak to him about the janitor job. He was just 
coming out of a saloon and greeted the minister some¬ 
what unsteadily. “Hello, hello, Mr. Welde! Say, 
that button is still there,” he laughed hilariously. “I 
intend to join the church—yes I do—one ought to be¬ 
long somewhere—I have promised, and I never go 
back on my words—and the kids—.” 

“Do you still have that paper?” the minister asked. 

“Yes, sir—right here, sir,” and he pulled the peti¬ 
tion out of his pocket and slapped the minister famil- 
iarily on the shoulder with it. “Them buttons,” he 
began again, “them there buttons, well, Pve got to 
laugh.” 

Pastor Welde opened the paper and found under 
his own and Brooten’s name those of a number of 
saloonkeepers, who had also signed the petition. 
Quickly he took out his pencil and drew a line thru 


Christ Before Pilate 


45 


his name, and folding the paper together handed it 
back to him. 

“Much obliged, Pastor, much obliged,” he said, 
“when I’ve said that I will join, why I will join— 
the devil!” he added, as he noticed that the minister 
already was some distance away. 

Pastor Welde returned home weary. Jorgina began 
to set the table. 


CHAPTER V 


The large congregation had received the new min¬ 
ister with great anticipations. In common with most 
city churches it had an aristocratic clique, and these 
reckoned on him on acount of his faultless manners, 
while those who felt themselves left out by the 
“swells,” noted with satisfaction that he seemed to 
treat all alike. Then there was the liberal element, 
which had joined the church for business reasons or 
because they wished to support a church—and find 
support in it. A little religion did no harm, and at¬ 
tending church was considered respectable; but they 
did not wish to be hampered in any way by the church. 
The men visited the saloons and the women the thea¬ 
ters and the young people found their chief diversion 
at public dances. This element was very strong. 
Lastly there was the small band of “elect,” who held 
their own prayer and testimonial meetings. The lib¬ 
erals counted on the minister because he had been 
seen with a cigar, and it had even been told that he 
had said he did not consider card playing as being more 
wicked than other social games, but the “elect” also 
counted on him. They had understood that he was 
one of them when they first heard him pray. To be 
sure, his sermons were written, but he did not lay all 
stress on faith and Baptism, as the old minister had 
done. He spoke more about the love of Jesus Christ 
and salvation for poor sinners, and this was a lang¬ 
uage that they understood, as perhaps none of the 
others could, they thought. 


On Garfield Avenue a heated conflict was raging. 
It was an almost exclusively Norwegian district com- 



Christ Before Pilate 


47 


posed of several streets and avenues known as “Gar¬ 
field Avenue,” because this was the name of the best 
street in the neighborhood, and here was the home 
of Mrs. Andrew Thompson and also of Mrs. Nels 
Berven, those who were well informed might have 
added. 

At one time, half a score years ago, the street did 
not present such a respectable appearance. The houses 
were unpainted and the porches broken down, while 
here and there a broken window pane was stuffed with 
a thick, old-country sock. Fair-haired, dirty children 
were playing in the street, while women were leaning 
over the fences with which the Norwegians always sur¬ 
rounded their lots. The more dilapidated the house, the 
more solid the fence, that was almost a rule. If the men 
ever repaired anything about the place, it would be 
the fence, and if the children were ever punished for 
damaging anything, the fence was the cause of the 
trouble. 

Then a day came when a newly married couple 
moved into one of the worst looking houses on the 
street. The wife was short and rather plump, but 
of a very active type. She came from Crawford Coun¬ 
ty and was born in Wisconsin. She talked continu¬ 
ously, using English and Norwegian equally well, and 
this gave prestige in a street where most of the women 
spoke only Norwegian. 

It caused a stir, and Andrew Thompson, the man, 
began to tear the fence down. At first they thought 
that he intended to repair it, but instead he tore it 
down and split it up into kindling wood, while his 
wife was with him and directed the proceedings. Lat¬ 
er he brought some planks and replaced the broken 
boards in the sidewalk with new ones, also under his 
wife’s direction. It made the neighbors talk. Mrs. 
Thompson had looked at the sidewalk of the neigh- 


48 


Waldemar Ager 


bor to her left, which was really dangerous to pedes¬ 
trians, and the neighbor to the right noticed this and 
came over to call Mrs. Thompson’s attention to the 
condition which she knew Mrs. Thompson had al- 
rady noticed. The woman with the dilapidated side¬ 
walk saw their glances, and that evening great plans 
were laid in the house to the left about building new 
sidewalks. Soon three women could get together to 
talk, and the talk spread, and there developed a move¬ 
ment toward better walks in the whole neighborhood. 
Then Andrew Thompson dug a deep pit at the back 
of his lot and gathered into it empty tin cans and 
broken bits of glass and china and old shoes and 
covered the refuse up. The neighbor at her left was 
on the watch, so that her husband could begin simi¬ 
lar operations almost simultaneously. This angered 
the neighbor on the right, and she declared that she 
had intended doing the same thing for a long time, 
and on the following forenoon she raked her whole 
yard and made a huge bonfire where the children 
played while she was busy telling Mrs. Thompson 
that the women in the neighborhood were so “gos¬ 
sipy” that one had to be careful. 

And they all learned to be careful. It is much more 
blessed to talk about other people’s faults than it is 
to have one’s own talked about; and it is well that it 
is so, for it is only when one’s own windows are pol¬ 
ished clean that one can talk effectively about the 
neighbor’s dirty ones. Many sins are not reached by 
civil law, but gossip may be depended upon to serve 
as a court not to be despised. A sharp tongue does 
police duty in the back yards and the ballroom, and 
accomplishes more than its reputation gives it credit 
for. Woe to the street or the city where all are oc¬ 
cupied only with their own affairs and where no one 
is roused to anger over the shortcomings of others 
and gives vent to his feelings in words. 


Christ Before Pilate 


49 


Mrs. Thompson gained great prominence. When 
one of the women wanted to lecture a German or Irish¬ 
man for his carelessness, she was always called upon 
and performed her mission admirably. She could 
shed tears over a bushel of bad potatoes that a Ger¬ 
man had delivered to a woman from Bergen who 
lived a block farther down the street, and now she 
had to officiate as interpreter. She could translate 
both words and tears in such a manner that her Eng¬ 
lish was rather more vigorous than our original. 
There was a good deal of intelligence lying dormant 
in this street that neither the church nor society in 
general had made any use of, and it was this that Mrs. 
Thompson set in motion. The neighborhood got the 
reputation of being gossipy, and Mrs. Thompson be¬ 
came known as its worst gossip. They all deplored 
this and all condemned gossip, but the gossip went 
its way and improved the sidewalks and washed the 
windows and got the children christened and sent to 
school. The impelling motive was perhaps that “no 
one would have that to say,” but the results to the 
windows and the children and the backyards were 
beneficial, and Garfield Avenue became one of the 
most respectable streets in the city. The houses were 
raised and good foundations were placed under them 
instead of decayed shingle blocks, and they were re¬ 
built and repainted. The saloon on Clifton’s corner 
lost customer after customer, whereas, when Garfield 
Avenue emptied its Norwegian respectability into the 
church, the church was filled. If anything was wrong 
on Garfield Avenue, row upon row of pews remained 
empty. And the Norwegians on Garfield Avenue be¬ 
came a power to be reckoned with. The substantial 
buildings and the well kept lawns revealed nothing 
of the skillfully planned diplomacy that served to 
keep it all at such a high level. The women had be- 


50 


Waldemar Ager 


come so intelligent that they read from the real book 
of life, and the next door housewife was more inter¬ 
esting to them than W. J. Bryan or Theodore Roose¬ 
velt was to their husbands. A filthy or immoral home 
in the next block was of greater concern to the woman 
than the methods pursued by the Belgians in Congo, 
and she had the satisfaction of obtaining results from 
her anger, which was not always the case with her 
husband when he read the Chicago dailies. The wom¬ 
en continued to hold supervision over each other, 
and if the men had done likewise they would perhaps 
have been still better off; but after a while the gos¬ 
sip took care of them also, and they entered grumb- 
lingly the narrow path which leadeth to cleanliness, 
sobriety, and the prompt paying of bills. 

If the church was to accomplish anything, Mrs. 
Thompson had to assume leadership. She worked so 
hard with socials and suppers in the ladies’ aid society 
that there grew up considerable jealousy on the part 
of the others, but not enough to alter the fact that 
without Mrs. Andrew Thompson things never seemed 
to go quite right. 

After a time a new family moved into the house 
across the street from Mrs. Thompson’s. The moving 
van was scrutinized by sharp and experienced eyes as 
it came rolling up the street. They soon understood 
from the appearance of this load that hostilities would 
open. A new piano and a bundle of gray and frayed 
bedding and a worn-out washing machine, things that 
were new and things that were ready for the scrap 
heap, all thrown together. Had the woman known 
anything, she would have put a clean sheet around 
that bundle of bedding. There were cane-bottomed 
chairs with large holes in the seats, and an expensive 
leather rocker: poverty disguised in finery that it 


Christ Before Pilate 


51 


could ill afford—would-be swells, that’s what they 
were. 

Mrs. Thompson watched her new neighbor closely 
from behind her curtained windows. She knew that 
their name was Berven, that the man had been a 
bookkeeper in Norway, and that they had come from 
Christiania and had lived for a while in Minneapolis. 
She knew Christiania people by reputation—short ra¬ 
tions, and a showy appearance. But she would show 
them! The next wash day she put all the best under¬ 
wear on the line and arranged the more expensive 
pieces so that the people across the street could not 
avoid seeing them. And she found that she had been 
right. The new woman across the street took down 
her clothesline and stretched it between the woodshed 
and the back porch so that Mrs. Thompson could not 
see the clothes she hung out. Yes, she had been 
right—they were just that kind of people. She found 
that she had to run over to Mrs. Berven’s next door 
neighbor to borrow a pattern for a blouse for her lit¬ 
tle boy, and from the kitchen window over there she 
commanded a good view of Mrs. Berven’s back yard. 
She certainly had been right—only rags, stockings 
with holes in them and underclothes worn to shreds, 
not a sign of mending anywhere. It was just as she 
had thought. 

With the pattern in her hand she assured the neigh¬ 
bor that she could slip out thru the kitchen. That led 
her right past the Bervens’ windows, and one glance 
showed her that their furniture was still standing 
about helter-skelter, the way the draymen had left it 
three days previously. 

This first battle was fought like an engagement of 
artillery at long distance with no personal encounter 
or exchange of words. And on that washday invisible 
wires seemed to operate in the neighborhood, and all 


52 


Waldemar Ager 


the best clothes in every house were hung out on the 
line in such a position that the newcomer would be 
sure to see them. The husband of the neighbor on 
the left was a toper and the family very poor, but she 
hung out the neatly patched and mended underwear 
so that the garments flapped across Mrs. Berven’s, 
and thus she joined the others in the demonstration. 

Mrs. Berven flushed, then turned pale. She would 
not have been subjected to such treatment in the 
poorest quarters of Christiania. The frayed under¬ 
wear on her line was besieged on all sides by respect¬ 
able and even expensive garments. The condition of 
her husband’s socks and her children’s underwear 
seemed to accuse her. Her husband’s drawers looked 
like Admiral Cervera’s fleet after the battle of Santi¬ 
ago and bore a mute testimony to the fact that the 
owner sat too much and that his wife did not sit 
enough. Propriety and respectability fluttered from 
every clothesline and pointed their fingers at her, and 
well mended trousers kicked at her across the fences. 

She had watched the woman across the street ar¬ 
range her clothes so that the best pieces would be in 
plain view. It rained during the day so most of them 
left their clothes out over night, but Mrs. Berven 
gathered hers in a turbulent frame of mind. They 
should not gloat over her thus another day! She 
could dry her clothes in the kitchen. 

The next day she was seen dressed to go out. She 
stopped at her gate. That she was waiting for some¬ 
one was evident from the way she was glancing up 
and down the street and impatiently fastening her 
gloves. She wore a modish silk skirt and an elab¬ 
orately embroidered blouse and carried her watch 
on a long chain around her neck. A big brooch was 
a prominent feature, but the most noticeable thing 
about her was her hat, a huge affair trimmed with two 


Christ Before Pilate 


53 


long plumes. When the person or thing for which she 
apparently waited failed to appear, she began walk¬ 
ing haughtily and with a lady-like sweep up the street, 
looking neither to right nor left. When she got out 
of sight of Garfield Avenue, she went into Brooten’s 
bank, where her husband worked. While in the bank 
she grew suddenly ill and nearly fainted, so Mr. Broo- 
ten had to take her home in his car. Her husband 
also went with her. She was quite ill, but improved 
greatly when they drew near Garfield Avenue, and 
had nearly recovered when she stepped out of his 
car, her husband accompanying her into the house. 
Having gotten inside she was quite well, and said tri¬ 
umphantly : “Now, let the gossips have that for their 
trouble!” And when she later saw two or three of 
the women conversing together across their fences she 
felt perfectly well. After that she had no difficulty 
in getting acquainted. She was the first one in the 
street who ever rode in an automobile—and with the 
banker, too! 

Time passed, and Mrs. Berven became a power in 
the neighborhood. 


The ladies’ aid society was going to serve a lute- 
fisk supper. The plan had originated with Mrs. Ber¬ 
ven. In Minneapolis the church had given a lute- 
fisk and lefse supper which had netted over a hundred 
dollars. Everything that was Norwegian seemed to 
be in vogue. Mrs. Thompson did not have any par¬ 
ticular love for lutefisk or lefse, and said so. This was 
America, and one could not very well set that sticky 
and ill-smelling dish before Americans and Germans, 
and she could not say that she thought lefse was so 
awfully good either. Her father, who had been raised 
in Norway, had spoken about lefse in such a way as 
tho he considered that one could both live and die 



54 


Waldemar Ager 


happily without it. But Mrs. Berven’s followers had 
come to the aid meeting well prepared, and when 
she understood what the sentiment was, she had wise¬ 
ly seconded the motion to have such a supper. 
Mrs. Thompson was elected chairman as usual in 
a committee consisting of Mrs. Berven and half a 
dozen other women. It was really strange that it 
should turn out in this manner, for one would natur¬ 
ally have expected Mrs. Berven to have been elected 
chairman, as she was the one who had worked the 
hardest to have the plan adopted. But the committee 
was not chosen thoughtlessly as is often the case when 
men choose their committees. All former records 
were to be broken, and to this end all resources had to 
be utilized and a representation had to be secured 
from all the various elements in the congregation. 
With Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Berven on the com¬ 
mittee, the army from Garfield Avenue was marshalled 
and it was an army not to be lightly considered. 

Mrs. Berven wept with vexation because Mrs. 
Thompson had been made chairman of the committee 
again. Even the new minister had learned to say 
“the competent and energetic Mrs. Thompson.” But 
what did Mrs. Thompson know about lutefisk and 
lefse? 

Yes, what did she know? Mrs. Berven asked her¬ 
self this question again and again, and she thought of 
several other members of that committee about whom 
the same question might pertinently be asked. Dur¬ 
ing the preliminary discussion it had been revealed 
quite clearly who the women were that did know some¬ 
thing about it. Most of the members of the aid so¬ 
ciety came from small towns on the coast, where fish 
was eaten fresh, and lutefisk known only by name, 
while in the country districts the art of preparing lute- 


Christ Before Pilate 


55 


fisk was common. A great plan dawned on her mind, 
but she had to go to work cautiously. 

The woman from Bergen, who lived farther down 
the street, blurted it right out at the coffee table that 
afternoon when Mrs. Berven in a roundabout way 
had arrived at the conclusion that Mrs. Thompson 
would reap all the honor while the newer members 
would have to do the work. 

‘‘Let her do the work herself, and then bear the 
disgrace/’ she said, but Mrs. Berven tried to silence 
her and promised to help just the same. She herself 
would not be able to do anything at the time as she 
expected her sister from Chicago on a visit. At the 
same time she recalled the many humiliations which 
she had suffered at Mrs. Thompson’s hands, and the 
tears fell so copiously that the woman from Bergen, 
half-blinded, dipped her toast on the side of her coffee 
cup, and she could scarcely stammer the “I’ll tell you 
something,” with which she introduced all her con¬ 
solations. 

Mrs. Berven was busy the following week. Many 
tears fell and much coffee was consumed. 

Mrs. Thompson suspected no danger. She planned 
to sell fifty tickets for the supper herself, solicit all 
the cakes, and arrange for the lefse. When she did all 
this alone, it seemed only reasonable that the other 
members of the committee would see to having the 
lutefisk prepared. As chairman of the committee it 
was her duty to plan and distribute the work. 

It was really funny, too. Now, when there was 
only two weeks left before the supper and she was 
ready to put her plan into operation, all the women 
wanted to sell tickets, they all wanted to solicit cakes, 
and most of them were willing to bake the lefse, if nec¬ 
essary, but not one of them was willing to prepare the 
lutefisk. Mrs. Berven expected her sister to come 


56 


Waldemar Ager 


on a visit from Chicago, and the fish had to be watch¬ 
ed so carefully. Mrs. Olson had no cellar, and the 
woman from Bergen declared to high heaven that she 
did not dare to take such a grave responsibility upon 
herself. Others openly admitted that they knew noth¬ 
ing about lutefisk. 

If only Mrs. Thompson had not repeated so often 
that she would have prepared the fish herself, only 
that she thought the others might do that when she 
did nearly everything else, it would not have been 
so bad, but she could not now come out and admit 
that she did not know how to do it. And, besides, 
she soon realized from what direction the wind blew. 
Mrs. Berven had made many trips the last few days, 
and it had not gone unobserved that the parcels she was 
carrying to give the impression she had been shop¬ 
ping, were the same ones, day after day. Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son realized that she had burned all her bridges be¬ 
hind her. There might be women in the church that 
were both willing and able to help her, but how could 
she come in touch with them without revealing her 
inability to cope with this lutefisk affair? It was just 
that very admission which Mrs. Berven and the wom¬ 
an from Bergen and others were waiting for, and it 
was in this pinch that she appealed to the minister and 
the minister’s housekeeper, Jorgina. 


After leaving the pastor’s study, Mrs. Thompson 
had a long conversation with Jorgina in the parson¬ 
age kitchen, and the talk drifted quite naturally to 
the lutefisk supper. Lutefisk and lutefisk were two 
different things, Jorgina explained. At Pastor Wan- 
gel’s, of the Synod, they had the most perfect lute¬ 
fisk, whereas at Pastor Nelson’s, of the United Church 
—well, she simply could not describe it. “Mrs. Nelson 
had to have everything her own way, and the poor 
minister—.” 



Christ Before Pilate 


57 


“Maybe she left it too long in the lye-solution/’ 
Mrs. Thompson deftly interposed, “many do that, 
you know.’’ 

“Too long? Why, that would not make a particle 
of difference. All one has to do is to water it out 
if it gets too strong. That’s easy.” 

Mrs. Thompson admitted this, but what she meant 
was that some women make the solution too strong. 
Jorgina, however, sniffed at this also. One could 
surely tell that the solution was too strong when it 
turned reddish? In that case one could thin it out, 
of course. No, the secret was, that at Wangel’s they 
prepared their own lye. They poured water on hard¬ 
wood ashes, that was all. 

Mrs. Thompson fairly jumped in her chair. “Glory 
be!” She had learned that much. “Yes,” she agreed 
heartily, “at home in Crawford County we never 
thought of such a thing as buying lye. We always 
made it ourselves. Anybody ought to know that 
much, but nowadays people are getting so that every¬ 
thing has to be bought at the store.” 

Jorgina also deplored this tendency, and the conver¬ 
sation was in danger of drifting into a new line. But 
Mrs. Thompson brought it back to where she wanted 
it by telling about a woman on Garfield Avenue who 
spoiled her fish by putting it in lye-solution before 
putting it in water. Jorgina laughed, and Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son gathered that it was a very foolish thing to do 
and began laughing herself so that she nearly spilled 
her second cup of coffee and had to set it down. Then 
she casually mentioned that the lady she had lived 
with in La Crosse let her lutefisk soak in water one 
whole w’eek before putting it in the solution, that was 
the way she did. 

“One week, oh, that is too much,” Jorgina said. 

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Thompson agreed “I used to tell 


58 


Waldemar Acer 


her that three or four days was enough,” and she felt 
relieved when Jorgina said that she would not think 
of soaking it for more than four days in water. It 
wasn’t for nothing that Mrs. Berven had told her 
next door neighbor that she always soaked her fish 
over a week. 

When Mrs. Thompson had succeeded in leading 
Jorgina to believe that she was well versed in the 
mysteries of lutefisk, it was comparatively easy 
to ask her to give the committee some assistance. 
Some women should not be allowed to handle food, 
they were so sloppy and careless. Some of the swell- 
est Americans in the city would be at the supper. 
But these women could poke around at home and be 
jealous and talk about other people, and especially 
about those who were no longer among the young. 
And Jorgina promised to help if the minister was will¬ 
ing to let her, but she was not quite sure of this, 
neither was Mrs. Thompson. 

Mrs. Thompson went home with an air of victory. 
Even if Jorgina should fail her, she had found out 
enough about lutefisk to be able to go ahead alone, 
and Mrs. Berven would be left disgruntled after pok¬ 
ing her long nose into it. 


CHAPTER VI 


It was early in the forenoon, and Pastor Welde 
slouched about in his room. He wore a green dress¬ 
ing gown with red silk cords. His hair was disheveled. 
He had not yet combed it. This was the happiest 
part of the day, before he dressed. With the morn¬ 
ing toilet made, he was clergyman again. But as long 
as he was in his dressing gown and unkempt, he was 
an ordinary, free and independent human being, a 
Jack-of-all-trades in the house. He was a lover of books 
like his father, and now he was putting the books in 
order in the book shelf. Every time he got some 
new ones, a different arrangement was likely to take 
place. He already had an excellent library. He kept 
on moving books back and forth and put some pam¬ 
phlets together. While doing this he hummed a song, 
to which he had set a kind of tune. It was a Danish 
folk-song that he had found in a song book translated 
into Norwegian dialect. 

Anon it is raining so sadly, 

And it's dripping from tree and from grass; 

Wind and stone, pine-branch lone have you wounded, 
Your cloak is all tattered, alas! 

The last three lines of the verses, which are in a 
way an answer to the first four lines, he hummed in 
a lighter and livelier tempo: 

Let it rain, let it snow, 

Let it storm, let it blow, 

In my heart will your words ever glow. 

He had scarcely read the song more than once, but 
it had clung to him—or perhaps he to the song. And 
now it had a melody, tho he knew not where it came 
from: 


60 


Waldemar Ager 


I can see by your eyes which are shining, 

That you just went and wept bitter tears. 

Wind and rain, grief in mind, tears in eyelids, 

You who are so light-hearted and gay. 

Maggie, Maggie!—where was she now? Presumab¬ 
ly she sat and painted in some studio in Paris and— 
someone else sat behind her with his eyes following 
the small dabs of color that the brush was applying 
to the canvas. 


Every tear that did fall. 

And the joy of it all, 

You alone have the power to sway. 

It was rather strange how it came about. He re¬ 
membered how he and two other students had gone 
to her studio to order a portrait painting of one of 
the professors who was soon to celebrate his twenty- 
fifth anniversary as a teacher. She was already well- 
known. He had later brought her the photographs, 
and he remembered how she had asked him to come 
and bring details about the professor’s color of hair, 
complexion, etc. He should bring information about 
all this. He had to be present to help and direct so 
that the likeness could be brought out. The stupid 
students had gotten the crazy idea of having the por¬ 
trait painted, without the professor knowing anything 
about it. He had sat many a time in the finely lighted 
studio—he remembered her best as sitting before the 
easel. He recollected also the air, confident of victory, 
with which she spoke of her contemplated journey to 
Paris and of her future fame—plans that left him out 
absolutely. 

He remained standing with a book in his hand. 
His broad chest heaved under the silken cords—it 
was because she did not want to prolong his torture, 



Christ Before Pilate 


61 


that she had acted the way she did—that evening 
after the party. She had answered him right. He was 
thankful for the light she had shed over his being. 
There was both light and warmth. He felt the warmth 
of it yet, but the light was gone: 

Where you go, on your path I will scatter 
Every flower, every sweet-scented leaf, 

To each bird that is heard Fll go begging 
With their singing to basish your grief. 

Yes, the final upshot was the best thing that could 
have happened. He had written and asked for a re¬ 
fusal—point blank, so that he would build no castles 
in the air—and could take up his calling, which would 
occupy him entirely. He could never do that if he con¬ 
tinued building air-castles. He has understood that 
she did not care so very much for him, so there was 
no actual need of having it in black and white. He 
had received an answer to that end—he still kept on 
building air-castles in which she dwelt. Every now 
and then he saw something that ought to be painted 
—and she should paint it. He should have pointed it 
out to her. 

And it was to be that way, no doubt. She had her 
calling, and he had his. In truth, he had never tried 
to think of her as his wife—she—think of it—living 
in a small city, to be set up as a model in the ladies’ 
aid—a target for the wit and spite of angry dames— 
turned upside down and inside out as a minister’s 
wife—in a Norwegian congregation—nix! It was best 
as it was! Certainly—it was best—yes. 

His eye wandered helplessly and with a troubled 
look about the large study, which all of a sudden had 
become bare and empty. 

Yes, after all, it was best. It could not be other¬ 
wise—. 


62 


Waldemar Ager 


“Jorgina!” 

He sauntered into the kitchen. “Jorgina!” 

“Let me have a cup of coffee, please! The Nelson 
coffee. Don’t forget it. Those Wangels may keep 
their slop. We two prefer the other kind, do we not?” 

Jorgina shook her gray head. She laughed. There 
were two kinds of ministers. The one kind was such 
as Wangel of the Synod and Nelson of the United 
Church, and the other was such as Welde—who real¬ 
ly were ministers only when they had the gown on. 
But she caught herself abruptly. There were also two 
ways in which to judge clergymen. 


Pastor Welde was in excellent spirits when he was 
comfortably seated that afternoon in the leather-up¬ 
holstered corner of Brooten’s automobile. By his side 
sat Theodora, Brooten’s oldest daughter. Brooten 
himself sat in the front seat with the chauffeur, in 
order to learn how to drive the car. His cheerful face 
showed that he did not choose to remember the dis¬ 
agreeable scene of the previous evening. It made 
Welde feel good. Miss Brooten understood how to 
dress. She was one of the few who look well in 
brown. Her eyes were brown also, and she sat there 
so lady-like and proper, watching her father, so that 
he might do nothing that would betray poor manners. 
She had given him careful directions as to what he 
should do and what he should not do, and he con¬ 
ducted himself so well that she could give Welde a 
good deal of attention. She told about the people 
they met and about the houses they drove by. She 
gave him the name of the people and also knew what 
the houses cost. Welde listened and was interested. 
It was just the kind of conversation that seemed na¬ 
tural under the circumstances, Theodora’s friendly 




Christ Before Pilate 


63 


and reliable eyes were so safe and motherly. They 
were also watchful. Now and then she would inter¬ 
rupt the conversation with a—“but papa,” spoken to 
her father when he greeted someone rather boister¬ 
ously. She would then in all confidence say to 
Welde: “I would give a great deal if I could break 
papa of saying ‘Hello Jim!’ and ‘How do you do, Doc !’ 
when we are out. But papa has worked his way up 
and there is so much that clings to people of that 
kind. It is almost impossible to break them of those 
habits.” 

Brooten was in high spirits. In common with so 
many strong people, he too, had his weak points. In 
spite of his high standing and his wealth, he had not 
been able to hold his own in the so-called higher circles 
of society in town. He had associated chiefly with his 
own country-men, and his English was quite broken. 
In vain he had sent his daughters to a dancing school 
and to the best institutions of learning. Theodora 
had often wept bitterly when they were ignored by 
the society set. Sometimes she thought it was their 
father’s fault, perhaps it also was their mother’s, who 
had been a housemaid before she married Brooten. 
Be that as it may, they had been humiliated time 
and again. Brooten himself had also been indignant 
at this. He considered himself as good as any of the 
“big-bugs.” So he put himself in the harness and 
made a great effort in order that the Norwegians might 
build just as expensive a church as the Americans 
and Germans. Now he had also secured a swell min¬ 
ister. The others had none that could come up to 
him in high-toned appearance. He liked to show him 
off—yes, the automobile and his daughter, too. He 
knew his own short-comings, but there was a satisfac¬ 
tion in sitting there as owner of several things entire¬ 
ly up-to-date. He had the satisfaction of seeing car- 


64 


Waldemar Ager 


riage after carriage and car after car slacken their 
speed as they exchanged greetings. They met on an 
equal footing now, and in his business it did not hurt 
to blow the trumpet. It would strengthen the bank. 
Col. Roberts and his two daughters had to be intro¬ 
duced, and the colonel said something about the time 
when he might find Brooten in his office. Brooten 
rubbed his hands. It was Winnipeg real estate that 
the colonel wished to speak to him about. That alone 
would pay for the car. Ex-senator Stewart, who was 
taking his sick wife out for an airing, cracked a joke 
while passing, and Winchell Brothers wished to find 
out what he had paid for the car. 

No wonder Brooten was in good humor. In the 
back seat Theodora was busy telling all about the 
beautiful homes and other things belonging to these 
fine people. The pastor enjoyed it immensely. 

The weather was also fine. Some heavy showers 
had purified the air, and apple and plum trees were 
in bloom. The lilacs were pouring out their fra¬ 
grance until the air seemed to be loaded with it. He 
inhaled it in long, deep draughts. His heart was like 
an empty, deserted room with broken walls. Those 
deep breathings helped wonderfully. And this well- 
bred, nice young lady at his side also helped to fill 
the empty space within him with her gossip about the 
people they passed. She became more interesting as 
time passed, and forgot to watch her papa. Pastor 
Welde also became animated and told things and 
made humorous remarks. They both laughed and 
had fun, and Brooten had to turn and shake his fin¬ 
ger at them. 

Yes, this was quite different from his father’s jolt¬ 
ing along in his old buggy, over poor roads some 
twenty odd years before, Welde soliloquized. It was 
a good thing and gave one a feeling of confidence to 


Chrtst Before Pilate 


65 


have men like Brooten in the congregation—men who 
could be depended on. Along the sidewalks people 
stopped and stared at the party. Many of them greet¬ 
ed him with a broad smile of recognition. They were 
his own, he thought, and Theodora’s eyes told with a 
satisfied gleam: they are ours. 

The conversation went on, and all three of them 
laughed at a remark made haphazard by Brooten, 
when the chauffeur hastily applied the brakes. They 
had nearly run over someone. It was a broad, awk¬ 
ward figure with a coat that was greenish-yellow 
across the shoulders. The man had turned around in 
his fright and stood as if he did not quite understand 
what had happened. Welde saw a large, protruding 
mouth open behind the thin beard. It was Pastor 
Mosevig. The car had stopped, but not quickly 
enough to keep the wheels from passing over a pack¬ 
age that he had dropped in the excitement. He went 
and took it carefully out of the mud and examined it. 
It was perhaps a piece of meat. He stood and turned 
the flattened and muddy package over and over, as 
tho he did not know whether he should save it or 
not. Welde did not hear what Brooten called out 
to him, or what answer he got. He saw only the 
dirty package and the mud with which the faded 
coat was bespattered. He remembered, however, as 
in a dream, that Brooten had patted the chauffeur on 
the shoulder and said he was a “corker” and how near 
they were to having one parson less in the world. 
Theodora had noticed that Welde suddenly turned 
pale and put his hand to his heart. Perhaps there 
was some reason for the talk that he had a weak 
heart. 

“How fortunate that there was no accident,” she 
said soothingly. 

“But was there really no accident?” the minister 


66 


Waldemar Ager 


asked absent-mindedly. “Pastor Mosevig was nearly 
run over.” 

“True enough, sir, but he saved his arms and legs, 
and that was presumably the most important,” said 
Theodora with a touch of gayety. 

“Ah, yes—you are right, most likely. Yes, he did 
not get hurt, thank God; but Mosevig looked as if 
something was crushed inside of him—and then those 
mud spots on his coat.” 

“He’ll get them rubbed off, no doubt.” 

“You’re right, Miss Brooten, you’re certainly right, 
but it seems to me that we are the ones that ought 
to rub them off. 

Theodora pondered somewhat irresolutely on this, 
and her friendly, brown eyes passed from the minister 
to her father and back again. If he only had laid the 
blame on the chauffeur. “I think he ought to have 
looked out,” she said at last. 

“I think so, too,” said Welde gayly. “I’m sitting 
here speculating whether one does not have a perfect 
right to drive over those who do not look out—put on 
full speed—right over them—splashing thru the mud.” 
He laughed in a constrained manner. 

Brooten turned half way about in his seat, “I have 
no scruples about driving over such ones as do not 
look out,” he said. 

“Not ministers, either?” joked Theodora. 

“No, ministers must look out, too,” laughed Broo- 
ton. 


CHAPTER VII 


It had been unusually quiet during study hours that 
afternoon. It was fortunate, as the minister felt 
strangely troubled after the automobile ride. Sup¬ 
pose he had driven right over this man as he had 
driven over his food. The Mosevig family will per¬ 
haps not have any meat for supper tonight. Of course 
he himself could not help it; it was easy to reason 
thus, but the worst of it was he had felt all the time 
as tho he were taking the bread out of the mouth of 
this elderly and shabby servant of the Lord. He said 
nothing and did nothing; but he always came in his 
way like someone with an unpaid bill. 

Jorgina was very busy. She had made use of Wel- 
de’s absence to clean and put things in order. Well 
and good, but she might leave his papers alone. Now 
she had cleared away everything—the book he had 
been reading, the Herald, the newspapers and maga¬ 
zines. He really ought to go and ask her what she 
meant by hiding things so he could not find them. 
She was taking unheard of liberties. Now she kept 
on rummaging around in the other rooms. Was she 
possessed? 

At the supper table he would give her a piece of 
his mind — that is, if she seemed somewhat normal 
again. He would ask her if she used to put away 
the papers kept by Pastor Wangel or Pastor Nelson’s 
magazines, and if they could stand this without rebel¬ 
ling against her and all her ways. 

But it came to naught. 

Jorgina was in high spirits, and the kitchen, which 
always was neat and tidy, was super-clean. Every¬ 
thing shone. So he knew that something was in the 


68 


Waldemar Ager 


wind. Jorgina kept her secret faithfully. She kept 
it so close that it fairly oozed out of both face and 
hands. 

Had she not maneuvered surprise parties for both 
Pastor Wangel of the Synod and for Pastor Nelson 
of the United? Didn’t she know how to keep her 
mouth shut so that the minister should not notice 
anything? You bet! 

And she kept her mouth shut so tight that Welde 
understood it all. He was young enough to be glad, 
almost boisterously happy. He could plainly see that 
Jorgina was happy and nervous. They spied on each 
other now. He must not let on that he knew anything, 
nor she that she did know something. The conver¬ 
sation—the few words that fell, tallied with the situ¬ 
ation. 

“You have had a real house-cleaning today, Jor¬ 
gina?” 

“Yes, that’s true.” 

“Do you expect company, perhaps?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Berven has promised to come tonight, 
and she keeps all kinds of eyes about her.” 

“Well said, Jorgina. Don’t fib.” He munched his 
slice of bread and butter in silence and contentedly. 
Now he understood why Brooten had taken him out 
riding and why there had been so few in the study, and 
why she had made use of the half-hour he spent at the 
hospital, to put the study in order. 

He wondered whether it would be best to go into 
the study and disarrange things a little, so that it 
would look more natural. If he was not thoroly 
surprised, the women would blame Jorgina. 

She was no master in the art of simulation. Per¬ 
haps that was the reason that she had never married? 

Now she was in the sitting room again—using her 
dust cloth and humming a tune. Likely she would 


Christ Before Pilate 


69 


be whistling soon. Of course it was impossible to 
tell anything by her. 

He walked carelessly thru the sitting room, stretch¬ 
ed himself, yawned, and said he thought he would 
take a walk, for things were altogether too fine for 
him now in the parsonage. 

“Will the pastor be gone long?” 

“No.” He figured a little. Eight o’clock was the 
usual time for ministers. “I’ll be gone about an hour, 
perhaps,” he said. 

That would fit in perfectly. Jorgina’s heart beat 
loudly. “The pastor will surely be home by that 
time?” 

“Yes, yes, certainly. Yes, I’ll be home by that time. 
The weather is so nice. It’s fine to take a constitu¬ 
tional.” 

So he went, and old Jorgina was very happy, con¬ 
gratulating herself that he had not understood any¬ 
thing. 

He would then also smoke his cigar outside, so 
there should be no ashes in the study. 

To make sure, she would go thru the study once 
more and put away some of the knick-knacks. They 
might easily get lost when so many people of all 
kinds came. One could never be too careful. She 
would also bring some chairs down from the rooms 
upstairs. 


When Welde came back the parsonage swarmed 
with people. He had bethought himself of making a 
sick call in the outskirts of the city, and it had taken 
more time than he had counted on. 

The lawn in front of the parsonage was transformed 
as if by magic. On the steps stood Brooten, the 
banker, directing everything. His administrative abil¬ 
ity showed itself in whatever he undertook to do. 



70 


Waldemar Ager 


Japanese lanterns hung on ropes stretched between 
the trees. An express wagon had brought tables 
and chairs from the basement of the church. Behind 
the house, the large icecream containers stood in 
readiness, and the dishes belonging to the ladies’ aid 
were being carried in at that moment. In the midst 
of all this busy activity Brooten stood firm as a rock. 
The orderlies came and brought directions back. 

AH these things were but trifles compared with the 
speech he was to make. The thought of this troubled 
him. He knew it by heart when he left his home. He 
found a chance to look at the paper on which he had 
written his notes. To people in general it appeared 
as if he were looking over some of the bills for the 
party. He was, however, reciting his speech to him¬ 
self and did not like to have anyone come near him. 

If it had not been for Theodora, he would have let 
Berven make that speech. That idiot could be used 
for almost anything requiring culture. He was of 
little account in other ways, but he could be used 
for such things. 

The kitchen and the adjoining dining room were 
regular beehives. Here Mrs. Berven was the ruling 
spirit. Everything had to be as the better classes in 
Norway used it. Bread and butter with eggs and 
anchovies, goat-cheese, spiced Dutch cheese, thin 
slices, cut so and so and put together just so. In 
vain did Jorgina interpose with Mrs. Wangel of the 
Synod and Mrs. Nelson of the United. The other 
busy and capable women did the work under the stead¬ 
ily recurring refrain: “Wonder if there’ll be enough.” 
And they worked and toiled and perspired and vied 
with each other in working rapidly and wondered all 
the time whether there would be enough. 

It was Berven who had conceived the idea, and 
Brooten had said it was “all right.” The church choir 


Christ Before Pilate 


71 


was squeezed together on the veranda, and when the 
minister's tall form appeared at the garden gate it 
burst forth with “The Heavenly Song of Praise." It 
was singing that would have been a credit to any¬ 
body. The choir was the pride of the congregation. 
The song rose and swelled on his ear like a mighty 
organ. Welde felt a lump in his throat. The tears 
sprang to his eyes. He had to lean against the garden 
gate. The song rose jubilantly. They saw that 
he was really surprised, and sang still louder. He 
was quite overcome and almost staggered when he 
took the steps after the song was finished, and was 
met by the many outstretched hands and merry, smil¬ 
ing faces. It was the young people of the congrega¬ 
tion that now wanted to take possession of him, and 
he felt in league with them. 

He was ushered in. The study, sitting room, and 
reception room were all filled with people. They were 
the older members of the congregation. The wealth¬ 
ier ones had gathered in the study. In the sitting 
room were people of the middle class, and in the recep¬ 
tion room sat a number of men who were not so 
well off, with a cigar box that had just been emptied 
among them. The conversation was carried on in 
subdued tones, and all moved their chairs a little 
when Brooten and other prominent men came in, es¬ 
corting the minister. 

The choir sang again out on the veranda, and Dea¬ 
con Svale stepped forward to introduce Mr. Brooten, 
who in turn was to make the speech for the occasion. 

Old Mr. Svale was very kindly and genial. The 
congregation consisted mostly of common, unlearned 
people, the same kind that Jesus largely associated 
with. But one found also that Jesus had powerful 
friends like the centurion, of whom we read in Luke, 
Chapter 7. 


72 


Waldemar Ager 


Bank President Brooten was also such a captain 
or leader, who has servants under him, and when he 
says to one: “Come,” he goes—and when he says to 
another: “Go,” he comes; but now he understood 
that he had put it wrong and corrected himself under 
loud protest from Mr. Brooten, and there was general 
laughter. Berven, who was known to go on a spree 
once in a while, looked quite embarrassed. Well,— 
old Mr. Svale got a going again and introduced Broo¬ 
ten with thanks to God for having given the congre¬ 
gation such a support and leader. 

Brooten came forward and bowed and excused him¬ 
self for his want of practice in public speaking, and 
also for not being prepared. He was not a man of 
many words, but he had had the opportunity of giv¬ 
ing his mite to the building and establishment of Zion 
Congregation. It now stood like a rock, and he was 
glad that he could count himself among those who 
had built the walls. But when one had built walls 
one must have a watchman on the walls. By the 
grace of God—he might say—he had been permitted 
to help keep the watchman on the wall also. 

After he had made a. fair start, he scored one good 
hit after another. It was quiet in the rooms, and his 
daughter Theodora had every reason to be pleased 
with him. He was also satisfied with himself and 
dwelt on what the church had cost and how it was 
built. He told what the parsonage was worth now, 
with the adjoining lot — and what the congrega¬ 
tion had contributed to the different branches of 
church work. He spoke of the good feeling that had 
always ruled, for which they all ought to thank God, 
who, next to the former pastor, should be praised be¬ 
cause everything went so well. He was not a man of 
many words; but he wished to speak of the im¬ 
portance of keeping the Word of God in its truth and 


Christ Before Pilate 


73 


purity in times like ours, when all kinds of sects, under 
different names, like wolves in sheep’s clothing, tried 
to sneak into the fold. They needed a watchman on 
the walls of Zion who could keep the fold together 
and give warning, and blow the trumpet when the 
enemy appeared. As a business man he was not a man 
of many words. His speech was mostly yes, yes, 
and no, no,—perhaps sometimes he said yes when he 
ought to say no, and no when he should have said 
yes; but he would say that they were very glad, be¬ 
cause they had a new minister in place of the old 
one who had resigned on account of old age. They 
had also been thinking that a new minister needed 
some substantial encouragement in his field of work 
—something that was tangible and could be touched 
and handled and which had real value for the new 
watchman of their church. 

He would therefore present him with this silken 
purse together with its contents as an encouragement 
from the congregation, in the hope that his preaching 
would be as pure as the metal with which the purse 
was filled. 

He presented the purse to the pastor with a pomp¬ 
ous bow and a beaming face. He knew what the 
purse contained. When Zion Congregation took hold, 
there was no humbug about it. 

During the long speech the pastor sat as if in a 
dream, with his eyes fastened on the picture on the 
wall. A couple of the oldest men in the congregation 
had placed themselves right across from him, and with 
their necks stretched forward they stared at him as 
if to see what effect Brooten’s words produced. When 
he tried to evade those looks, his eyes became fixed 
on the picture on the wall. There the people sat also 
and listened as if they were astonished—. “They were 
astonished.’’—How many times this passage occurred 


74 


Waldemar Ager 


in the Gospels! There must have been thousands that 
went about and marvelled and were astonished at 
Jesus. They wondered at Him in the hall of judgment 
and at Golgotha—they kept on wondering themselves 
away—away into the outer darkness, where there 
is weeping and gnashing of teeth. With all their 
astonishment, they were even worse than those that 
cried, Crucify Him!—He, Welde, was Pilate, and sat 
and' pondered, and Brooten was making him a speech 
about,—yes, what was it about? It was to the effect 
that Jesus was superfluous. It was about the walls 
of Zion and church building and pure doctrine and 
real estate, or what it all might be. He sat and pon¬ 
dered, and the others wondered; but where was Jesus? 
And he sat and pondered.—Now he knew why Pilate 
had washed his hands. It was because of that broad, 
fat, straddling fellow who with long strides had come 
up to him after the judgment had been passed, had 
pressed his hand and said: “Now you are the friend 
of Caesar, Pilate!—I am only a business man, but I 
will remember you with something tangible — now 
that you have condemned Jesus.—Well done, Mr. Pi¬ 
late! I’m not a man of many words.—Thanks, old 
fellow, many thanks. We need such a watchman on 
the walls of Zion. Thank you very much!” And so 
Pilate understood that he had done wrong and felt 
ashamed and had gone and washed the hand which 
had been pressed. 

There was thundering applause as Mr. Brooten laid 
the purse in the minister’s hand. It was heavy and 
fell thru his fingers to the floor with a thud. This 
brought him to his senses. In this purse lay also some 
hard-earned dollars, gifts of love from the men in the 
reception-room, who sat there and smoked, and from 
the others. 

He rose and thanked the people falteringly. He 


Christ Before Pilate 


75 


was out of breath and deeply moved. Again the ap¬ 
plause broke loose, and once more the choir sang. All 
were touched. Brooten himself was moved. His words 
had evidently made a deep impression on the minister. 


Ere long the rooms had emptied their contents of 
people into the garden, and the garden its contents 
into the rooms. Mr. Berven had made up a quartet 
that rendered from the veranda: “The pussycat sat 
on the roof.” He gave the cat solo himself, and there 
was merriment even out in the street, where a number 
of outsiders had gathered. People stood in small 
groups and smoked and talked. Dr. Spohr went about 
alone. When he saw a woman with a child on her 
arm, he would stroke its cheeks with his knuckles and 
ask about its name and how old it was. The women 
would get advice gratis if anything was the matter 
with their children. Behind the woodshed there was 
always a small crowd with a bottle among them. Re¬ 
freshments were being served to all. In the study 
some of the saw-mill workers had gathered and 
smoked their pipes and gossiped, while outside, in 
front of the house, the young people played “Pig in 
the parlor,” singing merrily, while a little boy ac¬ 
companied them on a mouth-organ. The sitting-room 
was full of children, and the wealthy men of the con¬ 
gregation stood in groups and discussed politics and 
business, while the less wealthy stood at a distance 
and listened to the conversation. Over in the corner 
of the garden a couple of girl friends had seated them¬ 
selves in the grass. They sang “Juanita” as a duet 
with clear but not overly strong voices. The sweet 
harmony reached farther than they had counted on, 
and drew listeners. Among them was the minister. 

Out thru the garden gate, every now and then 
some young fellow with his cap tilted on one side 



76 


Waldemar Ager 


and a bare-headed girl, all in white, would slip thru. 
They would walk around the block and would meet 
other young men and bare-headed girls who were 
out on the same errand. On the other side of the 
block, where no-one saw them, they would put their 
hands about each other’s waists and take short-steps 
along the side-walk; for now they were far away from 
the eats and the parson and the “pig in the parlor” 
and the whole concern. 


CHAPTER VIII 


The big battle was fought to a finish. Mrs. Berven 
had visited Jorgina in the parsonage. She had a suspi¬ 
cion that Mrs. Thompson had been there and secured 
assistance. 

She had proceeded in a very diplomatic manner, 
making a start by praising Mrs. Thompson. She had 
said that as far as she knew, Mrs. Thompson was the 
only one that understood how to soak the fish—at 
least that was the way she talked. 

She couldn’t possibly have any reason for saying 
such a thing, Jorgina thought, for she herself and Mrs. 
Thompson had talked about this, and as far as she 
could understand, Mrs. Thompson knew only as much 
about it as every house-wife ought to know. She then 
began to tell about the different ways in which fish 
was prepared at Wangel’s and Nelson’s. 

Mrs. Berven pricked up her ears. This story Jor¬ 
gina, of course, rattled off to Mrs. Thompson, so that 
she had information enough. But when Jorgina also 
told her that she had promised to soak the fish herself 
in the cellar of the parsonage, Mrs. Berven became 
uneasy. She began to explain what a fine cellar they 
had at Thompson’s. It was so cold that they did not 
even need ice, so they could save that much. She 
really knew nothing about the cellar, but when it was 
said, it was said. 

Jorgina supposed that she would have to do what 
she had promised anyway. 

This brought out more praise of Mrs. Thompson’s 
ability. 

The conversation now drifted to other subjects, and 
the excellent new minister was spoken of. How cap- 


78 


Waldemar Ager 


able he was and how well he was liked—and he was 
so kind. Many examples were given, among others 
this, that he even sewed on missing buttons on his 
own clothes. 

Who had said that? 

“Well, Mrs. Thompson certainly said it. She had 
even said that it was queer that he had to do such 
things himself, when he kept a girl—and so well 
paid.” 

“Well paid?” 

“Yes,—and so old, of course. One could not expect 
that she could get everything done, and the minister 
was so kind, she supposed he felt kind of sorry for 
the old hired girl with her failing eye-sight.” 

“The old hired girl—felt sorry for the old hired 
girl? Failing eye-sight?” 

“Well, yes,—Mrs. Thompson meant no harm by it, 
I dare say; you know that people who are born in 
this country do not have the refinement of the better 
class from Norway. She is so taken up with the min¬ 
ister, you know.” 

Jorgina had become very sober. The old, wrinkled 
face was set. 

“But this is a lie,” she said. “I guess Mr. Welde 
can afford to send his clothes to the tailor—I have 
never heard that a maid should also be a tailor.” 

Mrs. Berven thought the same. She hoped, how¬ 
ever, that she would say nothing to Mrs. Thompson. 
It was very stupid of her that she should have hap¬ 
pened to mention it. One ought to keep such things 
to one-self—if one heard something. 

Jorgina had grown very thoughtful, and when Mrs. 
Berven said good-bye, she felt it in her bones that 
Mrs. Thompson would have to soak the fish herself. 

When Mrs. Thompson some days later came to see 
Jorgina, she was received very coolly. Jorgina told 


Christ Before Pilate 


79 


her she was altogether too old and she presumed it 
was best for her to stay at home and sew on buttons 
in the minister’s clothes—well-paid as she was! 

Mrs. Thompson would not beg for help,—that was 
not her way. She would not give Mrs. Berven and the 
other gossips that satisfaction. She therefore told 
Jorgina as pleasantly as she could that the ladies’ aid 
had decided to give the supper, and that she had sold 
the tickets almost alone and had ordered things and 
asked for cakes and had done everything alone, so she 
thought, or had been thinking that some other women 
of the church at least should have helped with this, 
so that she would not be alone with everything; but 
now she had learned something—. 

To this Jorgina only replied that she had also 
learned something—and so matters rested. 

Mrs. Thompson went to Jensen, the Dane, and or¬ 
dered fish and told them to send it to her home. She 
knew something about the fish now, and Andrew, her 
husband, also knew something. Jars and tubs were 
procured and everything looked promising. 

Mrs. Berven walked as if on pins. 


These days were warm, and a little girl belonging 
to one of Mrs. Berven’s neighbors, who had been play¬ 
ing with the children over at Thompson’s, came and 
told that there was an “awful nasty smell” over at 
Thompson’s. The news passed over the fence to Mrs. 
Berven, and from there on. One of the women farther 
down the street happened to think that she no doubt 
also ought to sell some tickets for the supper. She 
threw a shawl over her head and went over to Mrs. 
Thompson to get tickets. She sat and sniffed: “What 
a queer smell!” Mrs. Thompson became very uneasy. 
She had often heard about the smell from lutefisk, so 
when the fish had lain in water for a couple of days 



80 


Waldemar Ager 


and she had noticed the disagreeable odor, she had 
congratulated herself with the thought that everything 
was just right. Now she became frightened. She did 
not sleep that night. What should she do? The next 
day several women came to get tickets to sell. Never 
had such interest been shown, she thought with bitter¬ 
ness. As time passed, she became furious. She now 
understood very well why they came. 

About the time when she usually had her afternoon 
coffee, her friend, Mrs. Storlie, came. She was very 
much agitated and sniffed like the others. “But my 
dear,” she said, “isn’t it the fish that is spoiling?” 
When she thus had given vent to her feelings, the 
tears streamed from her eyes. Here these women 
had been gossiping about this, and enjoying it and 
she had been thinking how unchristian-like and horrid 
it was to gloat over it. She had said to different ones, 
that instead of talking about it and enjoying it they 
should go directly to Mrs. Thompson with it—for 
she had been acquainted with Mrs. Thompson for 
several years and knew that things like this might 
happen to the best people—and—. 

Mrs. Thompson felt the floor rocking beneath her, 
but it was not her nature to give up. The fight must 
go on to the bitter end. She really had to ask Mrs. 
Storlie what she meant,—if she never had put fish to 
soak. She must remember that the cellar was nearly 
full of it. That would certainly cause a smell. It 
was, however, both the first and the last time that she 
would undertake anything like this. But no one need 
worry about her; if she, who lived here and slept here, 
could stand the smell, the others would have to stand 
it. But when Mrs. Storlie had gone, the strong woman 
burst into tears, crying: “Good Lord, what shall 
I do?” 

She braced herself, however, when Mrs. Berven 


Christ Before Pilate 


81 


came. She had just time to get over to the sink and 
begin washing her face so that she could open the 
door to Mrs. Berven with towel in one hand and soap¬ 
suds on the other. She finished wiping her face after 
Mrs. Berven came in. Mrs. Berven came to see if 
she could be of any help at the supper. She had 
heard there would not be help enough; then she 
sniffed with a startled air and wrinkled her nose so 
that it crept up between her eyes: “But what in the 
world is it that smells so, Mrs. Thompson? How aw¬ 
ful! It can’t be dead rats or something like that— 
good gracious, what can it be?” 

Mrs. Thompson was busily engaged in wiping her 
face and hands: “That smell comes perhaps from your 
house, Mrs. Berven. The wind is from that direction. 
Perhaps the bad smell comes from the dirty diapers 
that have been lying in water on your back porch 
since Monday morning—or from all the dirty clothes 
in the house—or from your bedding, that you haven’t 
aired since you moved in, over a year ago. It may 
be from your children, Mrs. Berven, or from your¬ 
self, as you most likely never wash your body—.” 

Mrs. Berven stood as if petrified: “O, you horrid, 
vulgar woman,” she hissed. “You’ll answer for this. 
The living God is my witness.” Her tears were let 
loose and so was her tongue. But Mrs. Thompson 
pointed to the door. “Out with you, right on the spot,” 
she exclaimed and stamped her foot—“and the smell 
will disappear too!” But when the door was between 
her and Mrs. Berven, she again burst out crying. 

When Mrs. Berven came home, she had to run in 
to her neighbor, where she could weep her fill, and 
she soon felt better. Mrs. Thompson had certainly 
gotten herself into a scrape. 

When Andrew came home in the evening, Mrs. 
Thompson consulted him. She had often found him 


82 


Waldemar Ager 


quite sensible when she once in a while had asked 
for his advice. “It must have been too warm for the 
fish,” he said. Mrs. Thompson was in despair—she 
could only sob when she tried to say something. 

“We must get some more fish,” he said, “and try 
again. We’ll get a little ice and change the water 
oftener.” 

“Yes, perhaps I did not change it often enough,” 
she sobbed. She knew she had not changed the water 
at all. Jorgina had said nothing about that. Too 
bad that she had not consulted Andrew before. But 
how could she be aware that he knew more than she 
did? 

“And then perhaps the fish was not the way it 
should be either,” her husband consoled her. 

Mrs. Thompson became more calm. That was not 
unlikely—now that she knew what was the matter. 
She had in fact thought that the fish did not seem to 
be as it ought to be when it was cut up into pieces, 
but she presumed they’d have to pay for it now any¬ 
way—after all the work she had had. 

“I guess we can manage that,” said her husband. 

In the evening—or perhaps it was in the night— 
Andrew got rid of the fish. No one knew how he dis¬ 
posed of it. It was thought that he dug a hole in the 
ground and dumped the mess into it. Neither did 
anyone find out how they got the new fish soaked. 
Tho the time was hort, the big supper came off as 
advertised. The hall was filled, and all praised the 
fish. A large number of tickets were sold. The best 
society in town was there, and there was a tremen¬ 
dous rush and a bustle without end. No one could 
remember anything like it. Thorvald Larson, who 
sold tickets at the door and put the money into an 
empty cigar box, scarcely knew how to take care of 
it all. There came silver and gold and bills. The 


Christ Before Pilate 


83 


young girls, dressed in Norwegian national costumes, 
ran about among the tables, flushed and feverish. In 
the kitchen, three of the most capable women, veter¬ 
ans from a hundred church affairs, stood washing 
dishes with all their might and still fell short. The 
supper was served at long tables. Capable hands ar¬ 
ranged the food on dishes and trays, and even Mrs. 
Brooten and the doctor’s wife worked as if posses¬ 
sed. Mrs. Berven, whose sister had not arrived from 
Chicago, helped wipe dishes. 

Mrs. Thompson outshone them all, however. She 
was here and there and everywhere. Her keen eye 
went from table to table. Here sugar was lacking, 
there bread. At one place a man sat looking around 
for a spoon; at another place the melted butter for 
the fish was cold. She saw those who had not been 
served, and saw still better those who never seemed 
to get enough. 

But there was no smile on Mrs. Thompson’s face. 
She was as busy as ever; but a distinct “shut-up-and- 
leave-me-alone” was written plainly, both crosswise 
and lengthwise on her expressive countenance. The 
small nose was red—an unmistakable sign that she 
had shed many tears; but she nevertheless carried it 
high that evening. 

And the others stepped aside for her with great 
consideration and were afraid to speak to her, for 
they knew that this time Mrs. Thompson had done all 
the work alone. She had arranged everything and 
everything had been done with dispatch, as it usual¬ 
ly was when she was at the head. Besides, she had 
sold over one hundred tickets of her own accord. Such 
a crowd of people had never been seen. When the 
rush was at its height, Larson reported that he had 
already received over fifty dollars for admissions, be¬ 
sides the tickets. It looked as if they might take 
in over two hundred dollars. 


84 


Waldemar Ager 


Well might they step aside for Mrs. Thompson to¬ 
night, for the fish was excellent—even Jorgina had to 
confess that it could not have been better. 

Why was Mrs. Thompson offended? Well, it was 
rumored that she had spoiled over fifty pounds of 
fish by neglecting to change the water which it was 
soaked in, and that the people in the house had nearly 
died from the stench. 

As if she did not know how to soak lutefisk! It 
was true that in one of the jars the fish was spoiled, 
and she was sure that the fish was rotten when she 
bought it. Jensen, the Dane, had been obliged to con¬ 
fess that some of the fish had not been like the rest. 
All the women listened and said, “Yes, yes,” and “of 
course” in a way that could not be misinterpreted. 
Mrs. Thompson did not even get a chance to exon¬ 
erate herself. 


When the entertainment was over and the pro¬ 
ceeds from the sale of tickets had been figured out, 
she went over to Pastor Welde and laid two hundred 
and forty dollars and eight cents on the table, together 
with an account in full and all the receipted bills. 

And now she would say good-bye, she was going 
to leave. Not even from the minister’s own house 
had she received a helping hand, so now she’d call it 
quits. There were other churches where they did not 
put the whole burden on one alone—and slander the 
victim besides. 

The minister sat dumbfounded. When he began 
to reason with her, she courtesied herself backwards 
toward the door. She had had enough, thanks. She 
was thru now, many thanks! 

About a week later one might have read in the local 
papers that the ladies’ aid in Pastor Mosevig’s congre¬ 
gation would, God willing, meet next Thursday at 
Mrs. Andrew Thompson’s on Garfield Avenue. 



CHAPTER IX 


The days passed by. The minister’s forenoons were 
usually devoted to calling on the sick. Never had they 
seen such a minister at the sick bed. He knew how 
to comfort and encourage, and if the doctor came di¬ 
rectly after the minister, he found his patient more 
hopeful and with a desire to live, which doctors count 
of more value to the patient than medicine. People 
sometimes told how he came into the sickroom with 
a flower or a branch of lilac in his hand, and he fre¬ 
quently would begin to talk about it and explain, just 
like a scientist, what wonders had taken place in 
that flower, how it had developed from the begin¬ 
ning, how it received its color from the sunlight, and 
that the fragrance was our Lord’s own secret. How, 
after having been a joy to the eyes and other senses 
of man, it faded and produced seeds that might bring 
forth still more beautiful flowers of the same kind. 
This seed and the germ of life in it were also God’s 
own secret. When the flower appeared the homeliest, 
then it was nearest to God’s greatest mystery. The 
flower became sick and faded just in order that the 
glory of God might appear in an everlasting youth. 
He did not seem to preach at all. It was only as if 
the conversation accidentally drifted into the field of 
religion after a while. When he left, the flower, the 
little branch, or whatever it might be, remained on 
the sick person’s table. It gave a feeling of confi¬ 
dence to have such a big and learned man seated at 
one’s bedside. So they said: “Please, come again 
soon if you can.” He became interested in these sick 
people and in the development of the disease. He 
was able to see at a glance whether they were better 


86 


Waldemar' Ager 


or worse. There was even a case where the doctor 
jokingly offered to divide his fees with the pastor. 

The case was that of Jim Brekke, who was sick at 
the hospital. He belonged to the “awakened,” and 
lay with shining eyes only awaiting the summons to 
depart from this life. Many of the “friends” met at 
his sickbed and heard glorious testimonies about how 
great it was to be prepared to die. He testified the 
same before the minister and lifted his emaciated 
hands from the quilt and praised God because he was 
soon to depart from this vale of sorrows. 

The minister did not seem to be properly touched 
by this. “How long have you been lying this way, 
Mr. Brekke?” 

“This is the ninth week.” 

“And you feel about the same?” 

“Well, yes, but I get weaker little by little, and the 
cough eats itself deeper and deeper down day by day.” 
He fumbled with his hands along the spread to show 
how far down the cough had already gone. 

The pastor sat and studied. “You've given up ev¬ 
erything, have you?” he said at last. 

“Yes, I am completely cut loose from everything, 
now. When death comes, I am ready.” 

“That’s good—that’s very good, Brekke,” said the 
minister, “but suppose you should get well again, 
would you be prepared for that?” 

“No, such thoughts I have put out of mind entire¬ 
ly" 

“That’s too bad, that’s very wrong. When you 
really are dead, you must remain dead—and at home 
with God; but as long as you are alive, the Lord 
surely expects you to be ready to live. It is no trick 
to prepare yourself for something that you can not 
escape. You are living yet, and I presume the Lord 


Christ Before Pilate 


87 


means you should live—as long as you are living any¬ 
way.” 

The sick man folded his hands and said as if in 
defiance: “I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that 
is enough for me!” 

The minister did not give up, however. “How is it 
with your wife and children?” he asked. “I always 
see them in church,” he continued. “Your little girl 
—now, what is her name?” 

“Mabel.” 

“Oh, yes, Mabel, I have such a poor memory for 
names—she usually has a red checked apron on— 
and Annie, she is in the confirmation class. The little 
boys—both of them—well, yes—it shows on their 
trousers that they are boys all right. And your wife— 
how do you think it will be with them when you are 
gone ?” 

“I have left them in the hands of God,” he whim¬ 
pered. 

“That's very well, but we can’t be sure that God 
wants you to die just now. The doctor says that 
there are indications that you may be lying this way 
for a long time. You have a lot to do and a lot to take 
care of. Your neighbors’ youngsters are tearing down 
the fence and the gate was hanging on one hinge 
when I passed your home lately.” 

“So they’re tearing down the fence, are they?” he 
asked in an ominous tone. 

“It looks that way,” said the minister. 

The sick man lay silent for a while, and a look of 
distress passed over his face. 

“Does the pastor really think I can get well again?” 
he said. 

“I don’t know,” said Pastor Welde, “I’m not a doc¬ 
tor, but I do know that if the Lord sees you are de¬ 
termined to die and the doctor sees that you do not 


88 


Waldemar Ager 


care to live—well, then there is no hope, I suppose.” 

“But what shall I, poor, sick man, do?” 

“You must pray to God to let you remain with your 
family a while longer. Just think about it, wouldn’t 
you like to live? Your wife and children would miss 
you very much if you should die. You might ask 
the doctor whether you may sit up a little and get 
more to eat. Yes, you’d better talk to him about it, 
for you’ll never get well if you do not want to get 
well.” 

Two weeks later Jim Brekke had improved suffi¬ 
ciently to be taken home from the hospital, and in a 
few days he was busy repairing his fence. 

One branch of the pastor’s work that brought him 
great pleasure was the young people’s society. In a 
way it was his child of sorrows. He had a strong feel¬ 
ing that something ought to be done for all the young 
people that had lately come from Norway. The girls 
usually worked as servant girls, and the boys worked 
in the factories and saw-mills. They were far 
away from friends and kindred, and no one looked up 
the servant girls to get them to go to church, nor the 
boys who lived in the boarding houses and whose only 
entertainment seemed to be found in card playing and 
in the saloons. 

The leading men of the congregation were anxious 
to have a young people’s society, but it would have 
to be planned for their own young people, and, if pos¬ 
sible, be conducted in the English language. The 
pastor spoke of the young immigrants that one must 
try to reach in this manner. He also believed that the 
young people of the congregation ought to learn Nor¬ 
wegian and be trained in using this language. At 
last it was decided that the meetings should be con¬ 
ducted in the Norwegian language. But now they 



Christ Before Pilate 


89 


were attacked along another line. All must become 
members of the congregation. The older members 
said it would not do to have their young people come 
in contact with other societies and sects and have de¬ 
votional exercises with them. Finally it was decided 
that the society should not be considered as belonging 
to the congregation, but should be independent. Thus 
the minister was in a way cut off from it. The soci¬ 
ety was, however, allowed to use the basement of the 
church. 

The young people of the church joined with great 
enthusiasm. The pastor gave some popular lectures 
and racked his brains to find something that would in¬ 
terest the young people. It was very difficult. He 
soon found that the young Norwegian-Americans 
living in town had been sadly neglected. There were 
well-dressed young boys and girls out of their teens 
who had never read a book outside their school books. 
Many had talent for music, however, and declamations 
were in vogue. He began to practice dialogs with 
them, and pieces in which several could take part. 
The attendance was very good, and all wanted to at¬ 
tend the meetings. One thing led to another and the 
dialogs were later given with mimicry, and false 
beards were used when one of the boys was to im¬ 
personate an old man. 

Instantly the whole congregation was up in arms. 
The church had become a theater! 

The pastor, who had himself feared that things 
might be carried too far in this direction, apologized, 
and the dialogs were stopped. Then they tried de¬ 
bates, but the Norwegian-American young people had 
nothing to disagree about. It was utterly impossible 
to get them to take part. But the older ones came 
and took part, “expressing” themselves so freely as 
to arouse ill feeling, and the young people stayed 


90 


Waldemar Ager 


away. When the minister, as the president of the so¬ 
ciety, put a stop to this, he found that this also was 
wrong, of course. 

In the meantime, the young people that he was most 
anxious to reach, had begun to come. After a good 
start had been made there was a constant stream 
from that source. They were intqlligent enough. 
Some of them proved to be better versed in Norwe¬ 
gian literature than the minister himself. To keep 
up with them he had to read a good deal. A written 
paper was started and read at their meetings. The 
church choir was, however, the corps elite of the so¬ 
ciety, and musical entertainment was never wanting. 
The church basement could scarcely room all that 
came. So encouraging was this work, that the min¬ 
ister was fairly shocked at finding himself thinking 
just as much about the young people’s society as 
about the congregation. 

It was rather difficult to keep all these young people 
together. The “newcomer” boys made money and 
were quite flush with it. The boys of the congrega¬ 
tion went to school mostly and were fitting themselves 
for this and that, or they loafed at home and were 
often too fine to do hard manual labor but not cap¬ 
able enough to fill good positions in stores and offices. 
They looked with envy upon the hard-fisted “new¬ 
comers,” who often outbid even Mr. Brooten himself 
when the auctioneering took place at the basket so¬ 
cials. The Norwegian hired girls dressed fully as 
well as the wealthiest young ladies in the church, and 
that would, of course, also give offence. 

Pastor Welde had to try to keep it all well bal¬ 
anced. With the utmost consideration towards the 
strangers, he took care that the young people of the 
church were not put in the background. All went 
very well. Then he began a night school. One eve- 


Christ Before Pilate 


91 


ning he instructed the native-born boys and girls in 
Norwegian, another evening he taught the “new¬ 
comer” young folks English. In this manner he tried 
to smooth out the differences. All this took time, 
but he knew he did not neglect his duties to the con¬ 
gregation. The older people saw how the young ral¬ 
lied both to their society and to church, and congrat¬ 
ulated themselves that they had gotten the minister 
on the right track. Things would not have run so 
smoothly if he had had his own way. 

Pastor Welde was happy. No branch of his work 
gave better promise. A spark of pride also lay there 
smouldering. The question as to the young people 
was the weak point in nearly all city churches. 

His parishioners began to admire him. He gained 
a reputation for his work in the hospital and by the 
sick-bed, and he did not have his equal in getting the 
young people together. Even if he had to take the 
back seat as compared with the old minister in preach¬ 
ing, in a private conversation his talk was so 
pleasant and full of sweet consolation. As to the altar 
service—no one could perform it better than he. They 
agreed fairly well on that. 

He was no longer considered quite superfluous. 


CHAPTER X 


It was late in the afternoon and the minister sat 
in his study. 

The doorbell rang. Thorvald Larson came to see 
the minister. He looked very grave and would not 
sit down. He came to tell the minister that God had 
been good to him and had helped him get that job as 
janitor anyway. He had not had much hope when 
he was in the study the last time. He had begged 
the minister to write an application for him, and the 
minister had not done it. The minister had signed 
one for a drunkard, who had the advantage of stand¬ 
ing in with the politicians, because he patronized the 
saloons. This man got the support of the church, yet 
now he had gotten the place without petition or sig¬ 
natures. It was God who had helped by moving the 
hearts. And now he wanted his own name and those 
of his family taken off the minister’s books. He neither 
could nor would belong to such a congregation. 

Pastor Welde sat there quite bewildered. He re¬ 
membered distinctly the man’s visit as well as the en¬ 
counter with Brooten and his visit to the school com¬ 
missioner, but most clearly he remembered the man’s 
request which he had not granted. Here the poor 
fellow had tormented himself with the thought that 
no one would do anything for him. 

“It was very fortunate that you got the place after 
all. Let me congratulate you, Mr. Larson,” said the 
minister and went over to the man, who took his out¬ 
stretched hand in a hesitating manner. “I’m very 
glad—and surprised too, for it did not look very prom¬ 
ising for you,” continued the minister. 

“No—if the pastor and Brooten had had it their 


Christ Before Pilate 


93 


way—but there is One who is stronger than both the 
church and the bank, and He directs the hearts of 
men like rivulets of water.” 

“Yes, that is true, Mr. Larson,” interposed the min¬ 
ister with warmth. “I am glad that your prayer was 
heard.” He recollected now how he had been driven 
to go out that evening. God had used him as His in¬ 
strument in this instance. That was certain. 

“But why do you want to leave the congregation, 
Mr. Larson? You are one of the best members we 
have. Your children are so smart and that girl of 
yours who sings in the choir—no, you must think this 
over first. What reason do you have to take this 
step ?” 

A bitter smile gathered on the man's sober face. 
“I think the pastor can guess the reason. When I am 
slighted and cast aside for one of the worst drunk¬ 
ards in town, and by our own minister at that, then 
I am not worthy to remain in the congregation, 
either.” 

He went slowly towards the door. “Well, good¬ 
bye, then,” he said and passed the palm of his hand 
over his eyes, as he walked down the stairs. He was 
only a plain and poor man, but he had loved his 
church, both the old one and the new. It was hard 
to leave it. 

It took a couple of minutes before Welde gathered 
his thoughts: Why, the man did not know that it 
was he, Welde, who really had gotten him the place. 
His first impulse was to run after him—yes, actually 
run after him. He stopped in the half-open door, 
however. He could perceive himself running out of 
breath and calling after him: “Larson—hey, Larson! 
It was not God, it was I who got you the job!” 

So he closed the door and returned into the office. 
He hunted up a cigar and lit it, but forgot to smoke. 


94 


Waldemar Ager 


Then he lit it once more and puffed away, quite in 
despair, until the door-bell rang again. 

It was one of the deacons, Mr. Bundegaard, who 
came—a serious-minded man who attended strictly 
to his duties and who had a very responsible position 
as foreman at one of the saw-mills. 

He came to talk to the minister about Ole Narve- 
sen on Garfield Avenue—he lived next door to Mr. 
Berven and across the street from Mrs. Thompson. 

“Mr. Thompson — Adrew Thompson,” the pas¬ 
tor corrected him with a laugh. The deacon had to 
smile, too. 

It was about Ole, yes. He had become such a hard 
drinker now that something had to be done, presum¬ 
ably. It would not do to have such a man in the con¬ 
gregation. Everybody talked about it. Here he went 
to church Sunday mornings, and in the evening he 
would, presumably, stand by the gate and swear 
something awful because he could not get the latch 
opened, presumably. And his wife—poor thing—he 
had such a nice wife—she was actually abused. He 
would not even mention the children. They came to 
Sunday School with big patches here and there. 

They ought to be welcome just the same, the min¬ 
ister thought. 

Yes, of course—presumably, they ought to be, but 
it was this way anyhow, that Ole was making himself 
impossible and grew worse and worse for every day 
that passed, presumably. The children ran with the 
beer pail—they were so small that the pail barely 
went clear of the sidewalk, and he himself stayed 
around the Huseby saloon both early and late, and 
used the foulest mouth when he was drunk. People 
would, presumably, notice such a man and think: 
When he can stay in the church, then all can stay 
there—presumably—whether they live like wild hea¬ 
thens or not. 


Christ Before Pilate 


95 


“No, that will never do,” said the minister. “We 
must use the church discipline in such cases. A severe 
judgment is passed on such, in the Word of God, and 
we must observe that.” 

“Yes, I know th&t, too,” said the deacon eagerly, 
“but I wanted to let you know about it. There is so 
much talk—well, you’ll not get offended with me, 
presumably, if I say it, but there are some who think 
the minister is altogether too kind, so that he will do 
nothing to such persons.” 

“Well, that’s what you believe,” said the minister 
sharply and tried to look very stern. “It’s not easy 
for a new pastor, as I am at this place, to begin with 
church discipline; but at the same time I know what 
the Word of God demands and what the church de¬ 
mands of me in such a case.” 

After they had conversed a while longer about this, 
the deacon took his leave. “Well, you’ll presumably 
tend to this, then,” he said, “but the wife and children 
we must try to keep in the church.” 

“Certainly,” said the pastor. “They have not sinned 
against the rules of the church.” 

“No, presumably not,” answered the deacon—by 
this time he had one foot outside the door. 


So they thought he was too kind-hearted to uphold 
the discipline of the church—they thought they could 
carry on as they pleased! 

He would begin to clean this up at once. There 
were altogether too many inside the church who 
drank, and who lived a life in open sin. 

Too kind? Did he coddle his own flesh and take 
his ease? Was he busying himself with his own af¬ 
fairs and official business and neglecting his most im¬ 
portant duties? 

He would go this very evening and speak to Narve- 



96 


Waldemar Ager 


sen and also to Thorvald Larson and Mrs. Thompson. 
He supposed that they would be at home after sup¬ 
per. Mrs. Thompson was on the point of leaving the 
congregation. She was welcome to leave, but he 
would let her know what it meant to forsake one’s 
own assembly. With Thorvald it was only a misun¬ 
derstanding; still it was not right for him to give 
way to his anger. It was not a good spirit that had 
moved him to come to the study this afternoon. 

The congregation was not what it ought to be. 
They were trained—trained Lutherans, but how deep 
their Lutheranism went—not to speak of Christian¬ 
ity—that was an open question. No matter what the 
guilt might be, it would be better, however, to have a 
smaller congregation permeated by the Spirit of God 
than a large one saturated with selfishness, drunken¬ 
ness, and other vices. 

He looked at his watch. The sitting room door was 
open, and a noise was heard from the kitchen, where 
Jorgina was busying herself with something. 

He went to the door that led out on the veranda. 
The town lay spread out before him. In many of 
the houses his parishioners were living. There were 
many good, kind people among them—very kind in¬ 
deed. They attended the church faithfully, and out 
of their meager earnings they gave more to the cause 
of God than the rich farmers on Willow Prairie. 
When contributions to the church treasury were 
placed on the altar he had seen many a man in a worn 
and shabby coat put a five dollar bill there more read¬ 
ily than did the rich men in his father’s congregation. 
It made him happy. They were good people—very 
good people, and they were so anxious about their 
church—were afraid the shepherd they now had was 
too good-natured to keep the wolves away. 

Jorgina announced that supper was ready. 



Christ Before Pilate 


97 


It was not long before the pastor was on his way 
toward Garfield Avenue. He walked rapidly and tried 
to harden himself preparatory to the necessary clash 
between himself and these wayward members of his 
congregation. In the case of the drunkard he would 
show him what the discipline of the church demanded. 
He could show no leniency any more. In Larson’s 
case he would show forbearance. Poor fellow, he had 
reason for feeling injured. He would apologize in 
regard to signing that other man’s petition. He would 
make them see that he was not any more afraid of 
humbling himself in the face of an insignificant mem¬ 
ber than he had been to call on the school director in 
order to redress a wrong. As to Mrs. Thompson, he 
had to pick a crow of a different kind. He had heard 
that she was a great gossip and had a domineering 
spirit. Instead of being anxious to keep her as a 
member, he would tell her the exact truth right out 
—that they were glad to get rid of her—or if not 
exactly glad, that the congregation had so strong a 
sense of decency that she would not feel at home 
there. 

The pastor hurried on. As he drew nearer and 
nearer to Garfield Avenue, he made up his mind that 
he must visit Mrs. Thompson first, while he was in the 
right mood for giving her a sound talk. 

He met Mrs. Thompson outside the door, and she 
waited a while, talking about this and that before 
she began to beg and urge him to come in. There 
were many eyes in that street. When they had en¬ 
tered the house, she was amiability itself, and talked 
fairly and sensibly about everything. No sooner had 
she learned that the minister was also going to call 
at Narvesen’s and Thorvald Larson’s than she sur¬ 
mised that he was on the warpath. She accordingly 
changed her tactics and began to praise Mrs. Narve- 


98 


Waldemar Ager 


sen, telling how capable and upright she was. To be 
sure, Ole drank a good deal, that could not be denied ; 
but it seemed as if there were other wives that suf¬ 
fered more from his drinking than she did—just the 
same. 

For some unaccountable reason, the pastor hap¬ 
pened to think of Mrs. Berven—perhaps it was the 
faulty pronunciation of the word suffered that caused 
it—and as a means to stop her flow of language, he 
asked her if the Bervens did not live beside the Narve- 
sens. 

To be sure they did. And the Bervens were so care¬ 
ful. The beer wagon stopped outside, and they got the 
beer in cases. They did not run with the beer pail. 
And then Mrs. Berven saved herself the trouble of 
cooking for supper. When Berven had a bottle of 
beer and a little bread and butter, he was satisfied, 
and it was so handy to feed the children the same way. 
That was the way swell people in Christiania used 
to live, she supposed, but as to herself— 

The pastor did not let her finish. This talk was 
all about neighbors. He said something to the ef¬ 
fect that he would know himself how to deal with this 
case. It was his duty to do so. 

Again Mrs. Thompson turned the conversation. 
She knew very well now that the visit to the Narve- 
sens was on account of Ole’s drinking—but what 
had occasioned this? 

She sighed a little and said: “Oh, yes, a pastor has 
so many different duties to perform, and when such 
things are reported to him he has to take it in hand.” 

The minister nodded in approval. 

She supposed it was mainly thru the deacons such 
reports came—the minister couldn’t know—. 

The minister drummed impatiently on the arm of 
the easy chair. It was the duty of the deacons, espe¬ 
cially, to look after such matters. 


Christ Before Pilate 


99 


Mrs. Thompson did not give up. Andrew was also 
a deacon, but she had often told him that Ole’s drink¬ 
ing was not a bit worse than that of the others. Even 
if Ole was drunk once in a while, it was still not so 
bad as having the beer wagon standing outside. This 
genteel drinking was worse. Ole’s drunkenness 
frightened people, but this tippling of the Bervens and 
of many others was much more dangerous. 

The minister agreed with her in this. 

She continued by telling that Mrs. Berven no doubt 
had “suffered” most and had a grudge, because Mrs. 
Narvesen, who was very poor, kept her children neat¬ 
er and cleaner than Mrs. Berven kept hers, tho her 
husband had a good salary — one hundred dol¬ 
lars a month. But she was a good friend of Mrs. 
Bundegaard, so it was “presumably” she who felt so 
bad over Narvesen’s drinking. 

Her drawling pronunciation of the word “presum¬ 
ably” was too much for the minister. He burst out 
laughing in spite of his serious errand. 

“Yes, you are ‘presumably’ right.” It was “pre¬ 
sumably” he, he acquieced. Then they both laughed. 
The laughter was almost hysterical after the strained 
suspense. 

When they at last were thru laughing, Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son stopped short saying: “Now you must really stay 
and have a cup of coffee with us. Andrew is doing 
some carpenter work out in the wood shed, and I’ll 
send Clarence over to Mr. and Mrs. Narvesen, and 
we’ll have a cup of coffee. It really was about time 
you paid us a visit.” He could not resist her energy. 
Quite passively he leaned back in his chair. He still 
had to laugh at this “presumably,” and as an echo he 
heard Mrs. Thompson’s suppressed but still merry 
laughter. Before he had collected his senses, the prep¬ 
arations were going Qt\* ,He heard Andrew ask for a 


100 


Waldemar Ager 


clean towel out in the kitchen, and there was noise 
around the stove. Next he heard a door slammed 
by one child, who ran off on an errand, and a while 
afterward another youngster started noisily off for the 
bakery. He understood all this—it would not do to 
leave now. The evening paper had come and had 
alighted right by his side. He took it and began to 
read as if this were really what he had come for. He 
had come into an atmosphere of energy, where a man’s 
will seemed to be entirely blown away. Resignedly 
he read the first column of the first page, then Andrew 
came in much embarrassed, but very friendly. He 
seated himself, but in spite of mutual respect and at¬ 
tempts to meet halfway there was no life in the con¬ 
versation before Mrs. Thompson came in with Mr. 
and Mrs. Ole Narvesen. 

Mrs. Narvesen was a reserved woman with sharp 
features, and Ole was a middle-aged man with a lop¬ 
sided mustache and a face that looked as if it were 
always laughing. Small wrinkles had settled around 
the eyes so they barely peeped out; but what little 
could be seen of them shone with kindliness and good 
humor. 

It was not long before the large table was set with 
a white cloth and shining dishes. So quickly were 
the things wafted forth, amidst talk and laughter, 
that the table seemed set as if by magic. The minister 
was now in excellent spirits. Again and again he re¬ 
peated how fine everything tasted when one did not 
have to sit and eat alone. Ole had a peculiar way of 
being witty. He showed it mainly by mildly teasing 
his serious wife and Mrs. Thompson, who took her 
part. Andrew and the minister were kept laughing. 
When they were thru with the coffee and the room 
as quickly had been transformed from dining room to 
sitting room, Mrs. Thompson reminded her husband 


Christ Before Pilate 


101 


of a cigar that he had lying somewhere. He found it 
and offered it to the minister. Ole fished out a some¬ 
what ragged cigar from his vest pocket. It evidently 
hailed from some saloon. Andrew lit his pipe. The 
two women disappeared in the kitchen, where they 
washed the dishes, while the men smoked. 

This was very cozy. Andrew was a sensible man, 
and when he once got started he could talk about all 
sorts of things. Ole’s face fairly beamed with good 
humor. They talked about the congregation, the 
young people’s society, and the affairs of the town. 
When the women came back the conversation took 
another turn. They talked about this and that, and 
among other things about Larson and his new posi¬ 
tion. They were very glad that he had gotten the 
job, but did not know if he could manage it. He was 
a very kind and good man, but both he and his wife 
were altogether too easy going, so they never got any¬ 
where. Others bought green wood in the summer 
time and got large loads cheap and let it dry, but 
Larson bought dry wood in the fall and got small 
loads at a stiff price and let it lie outside and get wet 
till winter came. When he came home with his pay, 
they lived high and the children stuffed themselves 
with fruit and all kinds of things so that they got 
sick. Then they had to skimp till next pay-day, when 
they again, like starved animals, would grab the 
money he brought home. That was the way it went, 
and dire poverty and sickness came. Nothing was 
taken care of, not even their health, and that was 
most important of all. They had had so much sick¬ 
ness. To be sure, it would not have come if God had 
not permitted it; but really, people often had them¬ 
selves to thank for their troubles. 

Pastor Welde listened with interest. It seemed that 
all they said was right. Then the talk fell on the 


102 


Waldemar Ager 


drink habit. Ole now sat silent and depressed, and 
it was his wife, mainly, who led the conversation. 
The minister felt sorry for him. He saw how his fin¬ 
gers shook and trembled. He thought he had to say 
something, and that happened to be to the effect that 
it was the kindest and most capable men who most 
easily became the victims of the drink habit, those 
who otherwise were intended to become lights in the 
world. The best people could do was to vote the sa¬ 
loons out. All gave this their approval. Now it be¬ 
came known that Ole had been a good templar in 
Norway, and had also been a member of a temperance 
society where he was living now, but the old minister 
had killed it by warning against it from the pulpit. 
Since that time Ole had been going from bad to 
worse. 

It was nearly nine o’clock before the pastor realized 
what time it was. He had spent such a pleasant eve¬ 
ning that he proposed that they should come and 
have coffee at his home some evening the following 
week. 

Then he said good-bye, and they went out with him 
and accompanied him to the sidewalk. There he again 
bid them farewell and lifted his hat, and Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son thanked him in a loud voice for the invitation. 
There were ears in that street also. 


The pastor came home in high spirits. Not until 
some time had passed did he realize that he had not 
performed his errand. He had honored those he had 
intended to reprove. He had done just the opposite 
of what he had set out to do. That was the way it 
always went. 

He grieved over this. The next day he went about 
in a sad mood, like one who has done something 
wrong. 



CHAPTER XI 


It was at this time that he began to associate more 
with Dr. Spohr. Mr. Welde felt sorry for him. Spohr 
was a good doctor but did not know how to assert 
himself. People lost faith in him. A rather young 
doctor had arrived from Norway, a very important 
personage, who swore in every other sentence and 
was said to be somewhat addicted to drink. His 
name was Ebbesen. His Godless mouth seemed to at¬ 
tract people. The more pious they were, the quicker 
they ran to Ebbesen when anything ailed them. When 
he told them to open their mugs so he could look 
into their throats, and said something about its “be¬ 
ing as red as hell” and prescribed some infernal stuff 
for gargling, then they knew he was a man who under¬ 
stood his business. Spohr, on the contrary, was a very 
quiet and polite man, who would keep on for an hour 
examining a patient, only to tell him that he really 
did not understand what was the matter with him, or 
that he, in fact, did not need either doctor or medi¬ 
cine, only dieting, fresh air, etc. Even if the patient 
did not follow these directions, he sometimes hap¬ 
pened to get well, which showed that the doctor did 
not amount to much. If they followed the directions, 
they gave themselves the credit, or gave it to “nature” 
or the Lord, as might happen, and did not like to pay 
their bills. Ebbesen, on the other hand, only needed 
to look at people to see what ailed them, and, like 
the doctors in the old country, he prescribed two kinds 
of medicine, one in liquid and one in powder form. 
Dr. Spohr lost nearly all his practice. He retained, 
however, a great reputation as a doctor for children. 
The poor also came to him, as he did not send them 


104 


Waldemar Ager 


any bills. He had another fault, which he did not 
like to acknowledge, namely, that he found it so dif¬ 
ficult to tell people the truth. To the very last, he 
would say that consumption was a cold but had to be 
treated as if it were consumption, so as to be on the 
safe side. Cancer remained stomach trouble that 
might become serious. He could not bear to see the 
questioning eyes of his patients and would rather 
say that he knew nothing definite rather than to blight 
their hopes. This did not tend to strengthen his repu¬ 
tation. With parents he was frank, however, and did 
not hesitate about telling how it was with their chil¬ 
dren, and here his predictions, as a rule, came true. 
When he found that the new doctor was a more skil¬ 
ful surgeon than himself, he sent his surgical patients 
to him. While he thus let his most profitable practice 
pass to another, who, he had reason to believe, was 
his inferior in many fields of knowledge, he became 
bitter both toward himself and others. With the sick, 
however, he was always kind and considerate. 

Welde was intelligent enough to understand this, 
and he often deplored the doctor’s lack of knowledge 
of human nature. It was like watching a suicide to 
see how Spohr played his practice into the hands of 
the other, without getting anything but sneers in re¬ 
turn. 

This was one of the most important reasons why he 
attached himself to Spohr. 

The doctor had entirely different reasons for seek¬ 
ing the company of Pastor Welde. In his opinion, 
Welde was decidedly unfit to be a minister. Welde 
had the temperament of an artist or poet. He was a 
creature of impulse and was put into a theological 
straight-jacket. A minister must be of different ma¬ 
terial, a prophet who could shake and rouse the peo¬ 
ple and sway their consciences by painting the devil 


Christ Before Pilate 


105 


on the wall. What use do we have in our times for 
ministers with emotions? We need butchers—now 
the doctor looked quite fierce. A minister in our days 
has to be a butcher in a way. Dr. Spohr felt sorry 
for Welde. Such a man should not have become a 
minister. He was too kind-hearted. 

They always went along bullying each other, each 
one using strong words to fit the other for his work. 
Each one saw how necessary it was for the other 
to assert himself and put his foot down with deter¬ 
mination. They felt so sorry for each other that 
they could not become enemies either, but they al¬ 
ways found something to quarrel about, as the one 
would always watch for some sign of weakness in the 
other. From their conversations one might think that 
of religions the doctor preferred the Salvation Army, 
John Alexander Dowie, or the Fire Worshippers, 
while the minister centered all his respect for the 
medical science in the scalpel as the only thing of 
value. 


They were standing in the minister’s study looking 
at the picture, “Christ Before Pilate.” Welde stood 
as he usually did with his hands behind his back. 
The doctor pulled at his pointed beard and looked 
very critical. 

“That is a real work of art,” said Welde. “It is 
a queer fact about a genuine work of art that you will 
never get done with it. I have been looking at this 
picture, day in and day out, until I seem to know all 
these fellows; still there is always something new. 
Real art is inspiration and this is inspiration.” 

“Inspiration,” repeated the doctor sneeringly. “Is 
it inspiration to daub a canvas with some figures in 
Jewish costumes? This Muncaczy, by the way, is 
said to be an almost perfect idiot. I can’t for my life 



106 


Waldemar Ager 


find any inspiration either in the faces or the colors 
—and have indeed very little faith in inspirations of 
any kind.” 

“That is because you are an incorrigible material¬ 
ist—as all you doctors are, more or less— 

“—Judged by you ministers, who are all inveter¬ 
ate dreamers— 

“No, no, just listen, now! Here, for instance, is 
that patch of blue sky in the background; a bit of 
blue sky and the gates of the city in the distance. 
When one looks beyond these angry, furious peo¬ 
ple, the eye is caught by this peaceful view of the 
blue heavens and the entrance to the city in the dis¬ 
tance. Do you believe—can you believe that an artist 
would purposely reason out such a background, that 
contains so much—a whole sermon for the Christian?” 

The doctor burst out laughing. “That was a good 
one, Welde! The artist sat and daubed with a lot 
of brown and red and then got the notion to make a 
blue spot to brighten it—and that you call a ‘sermon.’ 
This is rich!” 

“Call it what you please. To us Christians, to 
whom the passion and death of Christ are the greatest 
thing that has taken place—to us this blue bit of heav¬ 
en and that gate have a deep meaning—without it the 
execution on Calvary would have been only a judi¬ 
cial murder, a commonplace occurrence. It is the 
blue spot that gives it a meaning.” 

The doctor tugged still more energetically at the 
point of his beard and twirled it ominously about his 
fingers. 

“If I were to deduce any moral lesson from this 
canvas, it would be that it is a very useless work to 
preach to people—a warning to all who take their 
preaching seriously—you, for example.” 

“Me? I have no patent on being more serious than 


Christ Before Pilate 


107 


others, have I? Why, you have found fault with me 
for not being serious enough.” 

“Have I found fault with you? I have had noth¬ 
ing against you, man, except from a purely profes¬ 
sional standpoint. I don’t like that strong body of 
yours. That means starvation for a doctor.” 

“And I don’t like your materialism—you’re getting 
quite cynical, too. Following your suggestion, I 
would say that it means starvation for ministers to 
meet such obstinacy as yours.” 

“If I were a minister, I’d get a drum and go out on 
the street corners and drum the people together, and 
then I’d preach doomsday sermons to them. If you 
believe what you preach, the subject is serious enough 
to warrant it.” 

“So you think I ought to do that? But why don’t 
you take a drum and tell the people that the air is 
full of tuberculosis bacilli and the water of typhoid 
germs and all sorts' of things? That’s serious enough 
too.” 

“I’m no charlatan.” 

“Neither am I, but when you are ready to stand on 
one street corner with yours, I’ll stand on the other 
with mine. Then you can peddle your cure-all medi¬ 
cine and I my universal religion—then we’ll see what’ll 
come of it.” 

The pastor was on the point of getting angry, and 
the doctor understood it; but it was so tempting to 
tease him a little. 

“What I really meant,” and he assumed a very 
pleasant tone of voice,” is that He—and he pointed 
to the figure of Christ—He went up and down and 
preached in the streets and lanes without a fixed sal¬ 
ary ; a complete failure seen from that side. His 
whole congregation left Him. Why, John Alexander 


108 


Waldemar Ager 


Dowie did better than that. He made some money 
and left both a curtain factory and a candy shop!” 

The pastor was about to give a sharp answer when 
the door bell rang. He went out and stayed for some 
time, talking with someone who did not want to come 
in. 

The doctor remained inside. He was in very good 
humor over his last sally. Welde no doubt firmly 
believed in the crucifixion, the resurrection, and the 
divinity of Christ. It was remarkable that educated 
people could believe everything so literally. Still he 
was good. His heart was as good as gold. He was in 
reality a grown child, this Welde. He had the dispo¬ 
sition of a child and consequently the faith of a child 
and such.one must respect. 

The faith of a child—the nature of a child—a dis¬ 
position like a child’s—. 

“Unless ye become as little children—.” It struck 
him as he stood there. There was nothing strange in 
Welde’s being child-like in this respect. “Unless ye be¬ 
come as children—” yes, children. That was said by 
Him, who Himself had given the greatest proof of 
manhood—that of keeping oneself upright when one 
is alone among enemies—who will praise a little, bar¬ 
gain a little, and who want to be counted as friends. 

“Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ 
Jesus”—where was it? Yes, that was also from the 
Bible. 

He almost regretted that he had said that Christ 
preached without a salary. That was a shabby way 
of treating Mr. Welde—a spiteful way of speaking. 
Christ had also healed people without any salary, and 
they had also disappeared—they were gone when it 
came to a pinch. 

And yet He stood there before —Pilate and would 
not say the word that could save Him. 



Christ Before Pilate 


109 


Mr. Welde came back, and the doctor burst out 
again: “I’m glad you’re back, for I’m getting over my 
fit of anger. I herewith solemny retract what I said 
about a salary.” He bent his small, stout body, 
clicked his heels together and spread his hands out. 
“I retract on account of and for the reason and be¬ 
cause He in the picture did not demand any salary 
either, tho He had a large, a very large and extensive 
medical practice. In so far we both differ from Him 
and have no reason to rebuke each other, like two 
horse traders at a fair. We’ve got to live. Now, when 
I humbly make this retraction, what will the pastor 
give me in return? Will he take back this libelous 
accusation that I am a—what was that dreadful word 
—materialist—an incorrigible materialist?” The doc¬ 
tor bowed again, and Welde involuntarily stepped 
back so as to bow in return. He entered at once into 
the doctor’s mood, saying: “I can assure Mr. Spohr 
that all is pardoned, I regret hereby—.” 

“Now, stop,” the doctor interrupted, “one does not 
say ‘hereby’—that would have been correct if I had 
demanded it in writing. Your language, Mr. Pastor, 
is beneath all criticism. Now repeat after me—.” 
He made a sweeping gesture and struck up an at¬ 
titude: “I declare upon my honor—” 

“I declare upon my honor—” 

“That my accusation against Dr. Johan Olavson 
Spohr—” 

“That my accusation against Dr. Johan Olavson 
Spohr—” 

“regarding incorrigible materialism—” 

“regarding incorrigible materialism—” 

“was one of the inexcusable tricks,” 

“was one of the inexcusable tricks,” 

“that ministers, unfortunately, often use” 

“that ministers, unfortunately, often use” 


110 


Waldemar Ager 


“both in and out of season” 

“both in and out of season” 

“is to all intents and purposes formally and forever 
revoked, recalled, rescinded, reversed, repealed, and 
retracted—” 

“But too cumbersome to be repeated,” interrupted 
the minister laughingly. “That was a dreadful har¬ 
angue.” 

“Yes, but it really was a dreadful accusation,” said 
the doctor, dropping into a chair and wiping the 
sweat from his brow. They both laughed. 

After a little while Welde suddenly became serious. 
“Now I am going to tell you, doctor, that I really 
owed you an apology for the expression I used.” 

“Are you at it again?” 

“I should have said that you were a hypocrite 
instead.” 

“I’m a hypocrite—is that meant as a joke?” 

“No, I’m in earnest. I’m most accustomed to as¬ 
sociating with the kind of hypocrites that pretend to 
be Christians, but you are not. You, on the con¬ 
trary, pretend to be an infidel, while you are not.” 

“I’m not! Do you think I believe all this nonsense 
you are preaching about?” 

“You must believe it in a way, when you live ac¬ 
cording to it.” 

“I?” 

“Yes, just you. Fve seen you turn away from the 
bed and wipe your eyes when you’ve seen a mother 
weep by her child’s death-bed. Materialists don’t do 
that. It is only Christians, or such as at any rate 
have some Christianity, who do that. What reason 
could there be for a materialist to feel compassion? I 
have seen it many a time—is it materialism that makes 
you attend poor patients gratis and bring them fruit 
and such things besides? Many a time you find some 


Christ Before Pilate 


111 


pretext for not taking their money, so as not to hurt 
their feelings. You’re so conscientious that you scarce¬ 
ly will undertake a difficult case if you think another 
can do it better. Is it materialism that has taught you 
to put personal considerations aside and to go to 
those who have nothing to pay with, before you go to 
those who have plenty?—Wait a little,” he added, as 
he saw the doctor, with evident signs of anger, had 
risen and taken his hat. “You’re not so busy now, are 
you ?” 

Dr. Spohr looked quite helpless. He was in truth 
quite angry. What did that ass of a parson under¬ 
stand of the ethics of physicians, the unwritten law 
that every doctor must follow, nolens volens? How 
could a doctor trouble himself with any show of senti¬ 
mentality at death-beds or the like? 

“It gives me pleasure, Mr. Welde, to find that you 
take such interest in my practice,” he said. “If I 
should become so situated that I need a theological 
explanation of the fact that I’m not so successful as 
my colleague, Ebbesen—then I’ll come to you, Mr. 
Welde—for then my case would be serious, very ser¬ 
ious, indeed.” 

He stood already with his hand on the door-knob. 
Mr. Welde had stepped up to him and kept him back, 
almost by force. 

“You must not leave like this, Dr. Spohr. Dear me, 
you must understand me — the only friend — real 
friend—I have around here. I only meant this, that 
you may reject the Christ on that painting, which is 
a work of art, and the historical Christ, and the 
dogmatic Christ; but the Christ I believe in and try 
to serve, why, I think you have more of Him—within 
you—than I have. Can’t you understand it? Is it not 
possible for me to have some disease that I’m ignorant 
about, but which you, as a doctor, could prove that I 


112 


Waldemar Ager 


had? Is it anything to get angry about, if I, as a min¬ 
ister, could show you that you do not have a spiritual 
disease that you think you have?” 

The minister was deeply moved; mainly because 
he understood that the doctor felt hurt. In his zeal 
he had run over him, as it were, stepped on him and 
wounded him. He understood it now. The doctor 
hesitated with his hand on the door-knob. The min¬ 
ister was surely well-meaning. 

Welde was a fine young man and entirely different 
from the notions he had formed of ministers. He could 
not leave him in such a state of agitation; but on the 
other hand—. “Well, well! Good-bye, Welde! Must 
go. You don’t know much about the ethics existing 
among doctors. Professional thieves, prize-fighters, 
and gamblers—all have their code of honor as well as 
the doctors, but that must not be confounded with re¬ 
ligion. A doctor can’t be sentimental. If we don’t 
send a bill to a patient it is because we know we would 
not get any money anyway. The rest belongs to the 
profession. If you should happen to break an arm or 
a leg, remember me. I will set an arm for forty-five 
dollars—in Minneapolis they charge up to sixty-five, 
and I write out death certificates for a couple of dol¬ 
lars. Remember me if anything should happen along 
this line! Well, good-bye then.” 

Dr. Spohr left. He looked at his watch. How time 
flies! He had a typhus patient that he should have 
visited. It was best to go there at once and let supper 
wait till he got back. 

That idiotic parson—to imagine that a doctor could 
concern himself about sympathy, kind-heartedness, or 
whatever it all was.—But Welde had a heart. “Let 
this same mind be in you,” that was the way it was 
written. It was confoundedly easy to forget such 
things. Welde didn’t have this “mind” as something 


Christ Before Pilate 


113 


within him,—it was the mind that had grasped him so 
that he was floundering about and did not understand 
what it was. He had not grasped it; but it had 
grasped him so that the poor fish winced under it and 
became unfit for his work. Yes, that’s the way it was. 

But how could a doctor fare who’d fool with such 
things? There would be some wonderful diagnoses 
and some curious modes of treatment. One would 
have to prescribe a pint of cream and a piece of prune- 
pie six times a day for children and a pipeful of tobacco 
and a high-ball just as often for the men—so they 
might leave the doctor’s office in a happy state of 
mind. 

Ah, no! A doctor has to be a hardened materialist, 
who has no more regard for a sick person than a 
cobbler has for an old shoe that is to be repaired. 

And then he stayed almost the whole night with his 
patient, who was a half-grown boy. The parents were 
poor; the mother was so tired out that he did not dare 
to let her watch another night. He therefore told her 
to lie down for a while, and he would wake her when 
he was ready to go. Hour after hour passed, but 
every time he was about to wake her and saw her 
tired and thin face, he felt that he must let her sleep 
a little longer. The worst of it was that he had not 
had any supper either. He heard them eating out in 
the kitchen and was almost tempted to go and ask 
for a bite; but perhaps they did not have more than 
they needed. So he sat and grumbled and muttered 
cusswords over the sick boy till it was past eleven 
o’clock. The only comfort was that the crisis was 
passed, so that he could tell the woman that the great¬ 
est danger was over. 

But many times in the course of the evening and 
even when he was on his way home, he had to think 
of Rev. Mr. Welde, who understood so little of a doc- 


114 


Waldemar Ager 


tor's duties and wanted to make him out a child of 
God. He really had to laugh. The pastor meant it 
well, however. Why not let him occupy himself with 
his dreams? He did probably in some degree under¬ 
stand his own business, but that of the physician was 
certainly outside of his sphere of conception. 


/ 


CHAPTER XII 

At times Pastor Welde felt as if the work was grow¬ 
ing beyond his capacities and assumed a scope that 
he could not quite control. He must try to guide it, 
however, tho his natural impulse bid him rather to 
drift along. Anxiety followed this growth. The young 
people poured a current of warm, living blood into the 
church-work. An impetus was given to both this and 
that. If it kept on like this, the church building would 
soon be altogether too small. 

Then some of the older members began to think 
that perhaps it would be necessary to hold back a 
little. Thoughts that had not occupied them before, 
turned up: Was it really a desire to hear the Word 
of God that led so many young people to the church? 

Mr. Welde was not afraid that the church would 
be too small. He was more afraid of being too small 
himself. It was one of his weaknesses that he always 
wished to see people happy. He seemed made to put 
the best construction on everything, and when people 
came to him with their stories and complaints he 
drifted into the path of the famous Herman von 
Bremenfeldt in Holberg’s comedy—he thought both 
parties were right and sided with all that had any¬ 
thing to complain about. Among them were some 
that the old minister with his larger knowledge of the 
world would have shown the door with a severe lec¬ 
ture. A servant of the Lord should appear with 
strength and authority. Welde often repeated this 
to himself, but with a helpless sigh. 

When he met people, he was always afraid that this 
one might be angry and that one sad—and so he had 
been going on like a dough-face, he thought—had 


116 


Waldemar Ager 


almost become an object of ridicule. But by the help 
of God he would try to present the truth with more 
force and earnestness after this. 

He was getting ready for a funeral which was go¬ 
ing to take place that afternoon. The story of the de¬ 
ceased man was very sad. He had been run over and 
killed while drunk. He had lived the life of a profligate 
and had been a poor support for his family. His old 
mother, who had come in from the country, had, how¬ 
ever, wished to have her son buried from the church, 
and the minister had consented. The wife did not 
have a very good reputation either. Only the oldest 
child was baptized, and the family did not belong to 
the congregation. Here was an occasion to speak very 
seriously. He must strike a heavy blow at the dreadful 
vice of drunkenness with such an example before them. 

The pastor knelt by his office-chair and prayed God 
to give him strength and wisdom to speak the truth 
as it should be spoken—unvarnished and in all its 
might. 


When the large church-bell struck its dull tones on 
the afternoon of a week-day and proclaimed that the 
earthly remains of some fellow-being was to be car¬ 
ried to the cemetery, then there was a bustle going on 
in many of the homes. Women dressed in black, with 
hymnbooks and sometimes with a folded white hand¬ 
kerchief about the book, hurried out of the kitchen 
doors and waddled quietly off by twos and threes. They 
seldom failed at funerals. There was even a regular 
staff that never failed. They came prepared to weep. 
The old minister had been especially fine at funerals. 
When he addressed the mourners and spoke of the 
dear departed, whose steps should no more sound and 
whose voice should no more be heard in this life, and 



Christ Before Pilate 


117 


the empty place at the table, or in the cradle, if it was 
a child, and the sad loss; then there was copious weep¬ 
ing. He had a way of tearing open the wounds that 
were still fresh so as to make them bleed in the pres¬ 
ence of the congregation. Every half-smothered cry 
from the heart-broken mother or spouse brought out 
audible groans, and the suppressed sobs gave, as it 
were, a necessary accompaniment to his own voice, 
tearful as it was on such occasions. 

Pastor Welde was different. He tried to make his 
sermon as short as possible and tried to hold back 
when he touched the tender, wounded hearts. He 
touched it so lightly that often the regular weeping 
squad had no use for their handkerchiefs. Well, one 
could not expect a young minister to have so much 
sympathy as the old minister had, thought the women. 
But when they put their unused handkerchiefs back 
in the bureau-drawer, it was with a blank feeling— 
as if they had been cheated out of something which 
they were entitled to. 

The church was nearly filled with people when 
the minister arrived. The friendly, old parish-clerk, 
anxious to be on the safe side, told him again what 
kind of a man the deceased had been, and he expressed 
a hope that the pastor would make use of the oppor¬ 
tunity to give a warning to the dead man’s comrades 
and others like him. The pastor said that it was his 
intention to do so. 

Now the pall-bearers came with the coffin. The 
mourners came after. They were not many. The bell 
ceased tolling. It seemed as if there was no ring in it, 
only the hard metal gave a sound. The singing was 
not what it ought to be either. It was merely so much 
sound from so many vocal chords. The only thing 
which sounded natural was the undertaker’s whis- 


118 


Waldemar Acer 


pered directions to the pall-bearers. The coffin was 
cheap, very cheap. The minister noticed that. 

At the sigth of the cheap coffin a voice seemed to 
awaken within him. He had his sermon ready. It 
seemed like a long thread that he had to keep in order. 
“Drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of God.” 
That was the text. He clung to it. “Such a plain 
coffin,” said the voice. “Drunkards shall not inherit 
the kingdom of God”—. “Only a couple of small 
wreaths—scarcely any flowers,” said the voice. 
“Drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of God.” 
The minister forced himself to go on. “Here we see 
the dreadful effect of sin.” — “They must be very 
poor,” said the voice. “Here a soul was hurled into 
eternal darkness, a soul which had chosen sin and had 
received the wages of sin.” “That pale woman, who 
coughs so, is presumably his wife,” said the voice.— 
“She is so poorly dressed;—but she has evidently put 
on the best she has,” continued the voice. “The two 
little girls.” The minister roused himself with great 
effort: “One who had rejected the mercy of God and 
instead of the church and the precious blood of Christ, 
had chosen the liquor and the saloon.” — “The old 
woman is the mother, poor thing,” said the voice. 

His sermon went to pieces. The thread was torn 
into shreds. He had noticed how the old woman sat 
and rocked herself to and fro, while they were sing¬ 
ing. She was a believing woman. He would name her 
specially as a mother, who had done her duty and 
could meet at the judgment-seat, knowing she had 
been a good mother, who had carried her son before 
the Lord on the arms of prayer. — “Now the old 
mother is crying too,” said the voice,—“She weeps 
over her poor boy and the judgment he is to get both 
here and hereafter,” it continued. 

Welde turned half aside and closed his eyes. His 


Christ Before Pilate 


119 


sermon seemed snached away. In vain he tried to pick 
up the pieces. He could have said a thousand things 
—if only the one woman would stop her coughing and 
the other cease her weeping—and if only the little 
girls had not been there—“to hear you proclaim that 
their father is in hell,” said the voice within him. 

The pastor shrank from his task. He could probably 
have said what he had intended to say if the coffin 
had been very expensive and had been carried in by 
big-bellied, red-nosed saloon-keepers, he thought. 

The singing had ceased. 

Mr. Welde stepped forward and offered a short, al¬ 
most indistinct prayer. When he was thru, he stood a 
moment and stared helplessly before him. Some small 
pieces of paper containing his notes were crushed to¬ 
gether in the hollow of his hand. He opened the Bi¬ 
ble and read, as it seemed, a chapter of random. It 
was about Jesus who raised the widow’s son of Nain 
from the dead. He read with an effort that was still 
more marked when he began to preach. 

“We are gathered here,” he said, “to bury one of 
our Norwegian countrymen, who was run over—or 
that we, I mean, had the misfortune to run over, so 
we are in a way to blame for his lying here in this 
cheap coffin, with only a few flowers—. I for my part 
regret that I was not thoughtful enough to send some 
flowers and—well, it is customary, when one has done 
nothing for a person while he was living to send some 
beautiful flowers to place on the coffin. I should have 
brought a large wreath, for I did not do a single thing 
for this man while he still lived.” 

The stillness of death reigned in the church. The 
old parish-clerk was bringing a glass of water to the 
widow, who had the bad cough; he stopped halfway, 
holding the glass in his hand. 

Welde continued his sermon. He spoke only about 


120 


Waldemar Ager 


himself. All that he might have done for this man 
that he had not done. He had seen the saloons stand¬ 
ing in this man’s path and had done nothing. He had 
seen the glasses emptied in respectable gatherings, 
but he had not said much. He had known how in¬ 
toxicating liquors led people to ruin, but he had taken 
no action. Even if he did not know this man person¬ 
ally, he had known there were such—and had passed 
by like the priest and the Levite. It could neither 
comfort nor excuse him, that he was not the only one 
who had passed by, he said. 

For the first time he spoke at length. He saw the 
many faces turned toward him. No one wept, but the 
silence was death-like; it was only broken now and 
then by the sick widow’s hacking cough. The many 
upturned faces were the jury—he was his own ac¬ 
cuser. He knew very well that they too were guilty. 
If he had acted the role of the priest then they had 
acted that of the Levite,—but could the priest accuse 
the Levite? The priest had had the first opportunity. 
Welde warmed to his subject. He turned to his text. 
It was a widow’s son who was dead,—actually dead 
as this man in the coffin, and all had said: “Weep, 
weep, mother! all hope is gone.” But Jesus had com¬ 
passion on the mother and raised her son from the 
dead, so that she who thought she had lost him, had 
him again. Perhaps people had not acted the way 
they should have done toward this mother and her 
boy, but Jesus knew why He raised him from the 
dead. He wanted to make her happy,—He felt sorry 
for her. He had a mother Himself who was dear to 
Him, and no one understood the mother’s heart the 
way He did. To us He had said: “Judge not!” When 
He did judge, he used a measure different from that 
of men. The one who stood lowest would be bid to 
go up higher—the one who was highest told to take 


Christ Before Pilate 


121 


the lowest place, and the one who gave least gave 
most. In a case like this it was best for each and 
every one to repeat the Publican’s humble prayer: 
“God, be merciful to me a sinner.” 

Pastor Welde grew eloquent. The old woman’s eyes 
shone with a strange light as she turned them to the 
speaker. The widow sat a little more erect, she wiped 
the tear-stained faces of the children, and hushed the 
smallest one, who began to cry. The pastor closed 
with an earnest warning to all to be prepared—not to 
judge others, but to be judged themselves; for we 
must all appear before the judgment seat of God, be¬ 
fore the Father who seeth in secret and rewards 
openly. Our greatest concern should be to be ready 
when our time comes and the shades of night are 
drawing nigh. Instead of offering a prayer, he folded 
his hands and repeated the following lines by the 
Danish poet Ingemann: 

Be with us when day is waning, 

Thou Father of love and light; 

Stay with us when darkness poureth 
Out from the windows of night. 

Spread out over mountain and valley 
Thy garment of stars, then we 
So soundly will close our eyelids 
And slumber safely with Thee. 

When the coffin was opened, Welde went down to 
see the corpse. It nearly gave him a shock when he 
saw the hard features and the broken nose. When the 
people had passed around the coffin and the two 
women went over to it, the old woman put her bony 
hand under the chin of her dead boy and stroked his 
cheek. “Good-bye my boy, good-bye. You must meet 
me at the gate. I’ll not be long in coming.” The 
pastor had to turn away. The widow wept silently. 


122 


Waldemar Ager 


She had to be helped out. The two little girls cried, 
and the little one that she carried on her arm also 
cried. 

There were not many that went to the cemetery; 
but when the church had emptied its contents into 
the street and the black stream had filtered out to 
where it came from; then there was a lot of talk 
about the minister’s sermon and about him who lay 
in the coffin with the drunkard’s broken nose. 

Here would have been an opportunity to give the 
drunkards a proper warning—and it turned out—al¬ 
most the opposite, one might say. Still he had spoken 
better this time than he had two weeks ago, when 
one of the elders of the congregation was buried. 

How different from the old minister! 


CHAPTER XIII 


A feeling of depression settled on Pastor Welde on 
his way home from the funeral. Again he had failed 
and had let his feelings run away with him. The sight 
of an old, wrinkled face, the sound of a hacking cough 
—and he seemed fettered, he had weakened and had 
forgotten what he owed both his calling and his God. 
Forgotten—would he had forgotten! The worst thing 
was that he had felt all the time that this man had 
met an unhappy death, that he was not saved. Would 
his mother come upon the judgment day and say: 
“You gave me a false hope ! Where is my son?” Would 
other mothers come forward and say: “You spoke as 
if there were hope. Where are our sons?” Besides 
this the minister had an uncomfortable feeling of 
having departed from what he had been taught and 
what he was pledged to preach. 

These thoughts haunted him after he reached his 
study. There was mail for him, but he did not touch 
it. He began to pace the floor as was his habit. One 
must harden himself. One must speak the truth, even 
if it be with a bleeding heart. The doctor cannot let 
it affect him that the patient whimpers. The diseased 
members must be amputated; the aching tooth must 
be extracted. It was perhaps the greatest kindness, 
—to run the knife right into the dangerous boil, 
whether the patient was rich or poor. Compassion can 
sometimes be cruel. 

He stopped before the picture. There stood Jesus. 
His face was very serious. “What is truth?” Pilate 
had asked. This grave face was the answer. Christ 
was severe. He was the truth, and He knows no devi¬ 
ous ways. The truth does not walk on tip-toe and can- 


124 


Waldemar Ager 


not consider the feelings of people, even if those same 
people are to be pitied. If Jesus had been tolerant 
and had made it a point to consider people’s feelings, 
then He would not have stood there. 

“He would not have been there ?” he repeated as if in 
surprise. The conclusion he had arrived at rebounded 
upon him in the form of a question. The answer came 
instantly: Yes, certainly He stood there! It was just 
because He was considerate that He stood there. 
“What is truth?” Should he, Conrad Walther Welde, 
also ask such a question? Christ was the truth—it 
was not something that He rendered homage to or had 
appropriated—some fact or such thing adhered to. He 
was the truth. Therefore, exactly for that reason, he 
could make allowances without departing from the 
truth. Did he send anyone away? Did he preach 
about their misery—and get people to weep over their 
own misery? He had Himself wept some days previ¬ 
ous, but that was over a large and magnificent city, 
that none but He could think of weeping over. Did 
He ever use the wretched as a text? Did He not 
place His hands on the sick and heal them? Did He 
make a show at their sores and say: “Will not this 
make you, gentlemen, vomit?” Or did He say: “Here 
you see the consequences?” Did He make thundering 
speeches against the leprous, the palsied, those pos¬ 
sessed by evil spirits, the blind and the lame? No. If 
He had done that, then the Jews, or at any rate the 
Pharisees, would not have crucified Him. They would 
have been fond of hearing how good they were and 
that misery and sickness was the just punishment of 
sin,—that one should not hide under a bushel. Those 
who mourn should be comforted. He made no reserva¬ 
tions or said that there were exceptions. How about 
the sheep that had strayed and was suffering? He 
made no speech to the ninety and nine, nor did He 


Christ Before Pilate 


125 


picture to them how the lost sheep was suffering and 
how it really got its deserts. He did not dwell on 
the sad results of going astray either. He only left 
the whole flock and suffered Himself so that the one 
who was lost should not suffer. The ninety and nine 
did not understand this. It was contrary to all reason 
that He should consider the one in distress to be of 
greater importance than the ninety and nine that were 
comfortable. The Jews were awaiting a king who 
could lift the proud banner of the Maccabees, drive 
away the Romans, and establish a mighty kingdom 
ruled by the Jews. And instead of this He came to 
save the lost, such as were given up and cast on the 
scrap-pile as it were, such as otherwise must perish. 
Instead of making for the throne of David He started 
for the swill-cans and garbage boxes of society. That 
which was rejected by man was exactly what He 
could make use of. Yes, that was the way He was. 
—What was the trouble with that man Conrad Wal- 
ther Welde? He wanted to be Caesar’s friend and to 
please everybody. However, there was one consola¬ 
tion: Jesus would not have gone to church to hear 
about the sin of this man who lay in the coffln, while 
his wife and two children and old mother were there. 
He would surely have comforted both the mother and 
the widow;—but then the corpse lay there with un¬ 
mistakable marks from the last debauch,—Christ had 
not spared His own mother from a greater agony.— 

The old and sensible parish-clerk had probably been 
right after all. He had shaken his head and said: 
“That funeral sermon was a rather unfortunate one, 
I believe.” 

Still the pastor felt somewhat easier in his mind, 
for in the midst of his process of reasoning he had in 
a way felt safe, like a cashier who, even tho he cannot 


126 


Waldemar Ager 


make his accounts balance, still knows that he is not 
an embezzler. 

When the pastor turned to his mail, he found some¬ 
thing else to think about. Among other letters there 
was also one from Paris. He turned the blue enve¬ 
lope from side to side. He knew the hand-writing, 
and his heart beat violently. It was from Maggie. 

He curbed himself, however, and opened it leisurely. 

It was from her—from Maggie! It was from her. 
He glanced hastily over it, and his eye caught some 
foreign names—and— 

He began reading with remarkable composure. She 
said she had written him several letters. She wrote 
one in St. Louis before she left. She had torn that 
in small pieces. Then she wrote another, and that she 
tore into still smaller bits. Then she had scribbled 
some words on the train, and this letter was burned in 
the fireplace in Windsor hotel in New York. Later 
she wrote one aboard the “Deutschland” that was to 
be mailed in Hamburg. It had followed her to Paris 
and had burned there. She had been sorry that she 
had, not sent those letters, and this letter was the ex¬ 
pression of her regret. 

Yes, it was Maggie. He thought he saw her half- 
roguish face turned laughingly, as it used to be when 
she turned toward him from the easel when she was 
mixing the colors on her palette. That was the way 
she looked when she wrote this. 

He read on. She had been fortunate and had had 
many orders for paintings. The newspapers had men¬ 
tioned her and—she believed she might say—that she 
was one of those who were envied. Her fortune was 
made, in so far as it consisted in daubing faces to¬ 
gether in such a way that homely people became good- 
looking and still looked like themselves. That was 


Christ Before Pilate 


127 


the real art and had to be learned in Paris. Her future 
was now secure. 

Welde read all this with interest. They had talked 
so much about this, and it had really been his opinion 
that portrait painters should make ugly people good- 
looking and still bring out the likeness. She had al¬ 
ways made fun of him and said that is was impossible, 
and he had said that for her nothing was impossible, 
and that she never should have the chance to paint 
his picture if she did not learn to do this. 

Then she had been after him with a wet brush with 
which to paint his face, and she had chased him around 
easels and rows of half-finished paintings to a barri¬ 
caded position behind a chair. 

A warm current passed thru his whole body. From 
his breast it passed thru his shoulders and the back 
of his neck so that even his ears grew warm. It was 
Maggie who wrote thus to him. He continued: 

Really she should have written this letter with the 
left hand. She was angry with the right hand, for it 
had once written Yes, when it should have written 
No. She had once received a letter of proposal from 
a big, queer Norwegian theologian who asked for a 
refusal instead of her hand. She had been waiting for 
him, but he was so dreadfully slow and fearfully de¬ 
liberate and reserved. So in order to start him a little 
—perhaps—she had offended him by being nice to 
someone else and—well, then that letter came and 
she had become provoked and angry. She planned to 
go to Paris and had been prophesied a future, a great 
future perhaps, by people who understood art, as for 
example Prof. Sargent, Augustus Eddy, and many 
others. But she had also had her dreams, and the 
same hand that did the painting also did the writing. 
She had often been angry with it and had struck it 
with the mahlstick and with the brush-handles and 


128 


Waldemar Ager 


other things when she sat and worked—and there was 
no one sitting back of her, criticising her and telling 
her that she did not make people handsome enough. 
She had been so angry with that hand that she had 
taken all the rings away from it and put them on the 
left hand—and told it that it would never get any 
ring—if—Welde’s heart beat violently and his eyes 
did not see plainly—if—she wrote, a certain big, fair 
and strong Norwegian Lutheran theologian did not 
send one—even if it were ever so plain. 

His eyes read mechanically on. She made enough 
money for two. They might travel thru Switzerland 
to Italy in the winter, perhaps they might even visit 
the Holy Land with all its interesting scenes. The 
following summer they’d go to Norway. “Her ships 
had come in at last,” whatever else was lacking, she 
wrote. She also had inherited some money. She had 
especially longed to see Norway, the land they had so 
often talked about and where he had not been either. 
Then—in a couple of years—across the Pacific back 
home, where they would settle down in peace and 
quiet and—he would need do nothing in the world, 
except to worship her and they would be the happiest 
people in the whole wide, wide world. 

Pastor Welde rose and began to pace the floor. He 
would allow himself to think of nothing but her. His 
happiness surged like warm waves thru him. Maggie 
was his. 

He had to do something. Yes, he would arrange 
all the volumes for the book-binder. It was a task 
he had dreaded. Then he remembered that there were 
more letters. He opened and read them and put them 
away. Then he arranged the different numbers and 
tried to be industrious. He wanted to think of Maggie 
but could not gather his thoughts. He imagined he 
was perfectly calm, but while he was arranging the 


Christ Before Pilate 


129 


volumes and papers, he caught himself humming the 
refrain of a song that the student quartet at college 
so often had sung: 

Come where my love lies dreaming, 

Dreaming the happy hours away, 

Come where my love lies dreaming, 

Yes, is sweetly dreaming the happy hours away. 

It had been sung as a solo and by a quartet. The 
whole song was little more than this. The same words 
in ecstatic tones of joy, repeated o’er and o’er. He 
hummed and whistled while he worked—and little by 
little it all rose before him as in a warm and luminous 
ray of light: Maggie, Italy, Norway, Palestine—his 
dreams, all his wildest dreams—to be realized. The 
blue letter was the key to all these fairy kingdoms 
where the two—he and she—belonged. He paced the 
floor again. He must go outside. But when he put 
his hand on the door he remembered that he could 
not go out in his shirt-sleeves, so he put on his coat, 
then took it off again. No, he must get out. The fresh 
air acted as a tonic. He felt so warm and buoyant. 
Now he was only going to think of Maggie, but some¬ 
how he could not quite grasp it. He tried to picture 
their meeting—it drifted away as a mist. Their wed¬ 
ding—it was like serving coffee inside the chancel of 
the church. She, his wife—Maggie his wife; Mrs. 
Welde: The ladies’ aid will meet, God willing, next 
Thursday afternoon at the home of Mrs. Welde. There 
was something about it that did not fit at all. It 
sounded utterly impossible. 

But she loved him; wanted to be all in all for him, 
as he wanted to be all for her. How he had dreamt 
about this! Not a day had passed, these last three 
years, that he had not dreamt of her and her sweet and 


130 


Waldemar Ager 


laughing mouth and her eyes with a warm and in¬ 
telligent and still a bit saucy gleam in them. 

He sauntered about a long time. He carefully se¬ 
lected streets where he believed he might be most un¬ 
disturbed and left in peace with his own thoughts. 
But all of a sudden he found he was not thinking 
of Maggie at all. He only went along and hummed the 
refrain: “Come where my love lies dreaming” in all 
possible and impossible keys. He even caught him¬ 
self imagining that he sang with the voice of the best 
tenor in the college. It was of course a mere delusion, 
and dishonest also in a way, to borrow the voices of 
others to sing with—inside of oneself. Now and then 
he met acquaintances and greeted them and talked 
about the weather, or was asked what he thought 
about the weather and would give a “Fine, fine!” 
born of conviction, in return. When someone passed 
him a careless “How do you do” or “How are you,” 
he would get a warm, “Fine, fine, how are you” in 
return. 

He strode along and came to a street where a small, 
low church lay squeezed in. He saw it across the 
street, without remembering at the moment that it 
was Mosevig’s church. Wasn’t it Mosevig who was 
repairing the steps? He was down on all fours and 
had overalls on. Now he put in a nail and was hunt¬ 
ing for another in an old tool box. A girl crossed the 
yard and went over to the fence to speak to him. She 
had perhaps been washing dishes, for her sleeves were 
turned up and—she was dressed very shabbily and 
had a pale and dusky face with a pair of eyes like two 
black spots—but she was far from homely—and he 
heard a merry laugh. He had stopped quite involun¬ 
tarily and she had seen him. She was perhaps laugh¬ 
ing at him. He was afraid that Mosevig would turn 
around and greet him just then. It was stupid of him 


Christ Before Pilate 


131 


to stop. He felt that Mosevig would have felt hum¬ 
bled if he should go and speak to him now, so he went 
on. He turned and looked back, however—then he 
saw a pair of eyes—. 


He was at home again. 

Well, well! If only Maggie had been poor, so that 
he could have done something for her. But then she 
would not have been Maggie either. He really was 
not needed anywhere. He had strength and a desire 
to take hold^-a consuming eagerness to lift heavy 
things and whatever was down and out. In the con¬ 
gregation, however, everything was in working order, 
his theology was safe and sound, the house was spick 
and span, the meals were prepared—Jorgina did every¬ 
thing in the house and was offended because she did 
not have more duties. Brooten ruled the congrega¬ 
tion, Mrs. Thompson the ladies’ aid, and Deacon Svale 
the Sunday School. There was not much left for him 
to do, except to endorse it all, and on festive occasions 
express the thanks of the congregation and preside at 
the business meetings of the church. It was strange 
that he should be so situated, who was so strong— 
for he had the strength even if he could not make 
use of it. But how about the young people’s society? 
—well, that was at least something. 

His glance reached the letter on the table. There it 
lay, and it was no dream either. He opened a drawer 
where he kept some photographs of her. He looked 
at them, but none was just like her. No, photographs 
wouldn’t do. Only a good portrait painter could 
bring out the soul or reflect something of the soul in 
a picture. But the letter was from Maggie and the 
room seemed filled with it: all else had lost its vital 
importance. The journey to Norway—he and she. 
Italy with its many associations and large collections 



132 


Waldemar Ager 


of art, the blue Mediterranean, Greece, and Palestine 
—where Jesus had wandered about with His disciples. 
How often as a child had he not dreamt of these 
places—the place where Jesus had wandered when He 
was here on earth. All this he would get from Mag¬ 
gie, and he would also get her; and when he got her, 
he got all the other things with her. All he was 
asked to do was to worship her—nothing more would 
be asked of him. 

“All these things will I give thee, if thou fall down 
and worship me.” 

—It came like a slap in his face. 

He had again stepped up to the picture of Christ 
before Pilate. Yes, there he stood—once Jesus had 
also stood on a high mountain and had seen all the 
kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them, and 
someone had said: “All these things will I give Thee 
if Thou wilt fall down and worship me.” That was 
quite different from standing here among the rabble, 
despised and mocked and with a most painful death 
before His eyes. 

What was Maggie—after all? She loved him be¬ 
cause he was big and had a muscular body. He had 
been told that he would attract attention on a boule¬ 
vard. Maggie saw him with an artist's eye. She was 
ambitious, and he supposed she had to be so if she 
was to make her way with an artist's brush. 

And he—Conrad Walther Welde—should be her 
worshiper—an article for exhibition and of no use 
whatever except to “worship” her. But, of course, it 
was only said as a joke. Well, he might continue to 
stay here, where they really did not seem to have 
much use for him. But Jesus—why, there were not 
many who thought they needed Him either. “My 
God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me!” He cried, 
as He hung on the cross. As the Son of Man He per- 


Christ Before Pilate 133 

haps felt that His labor had been in vain. Even Peter 
had denied Him. 

So it was not absolutely sure that one’s labor was 
in vain, even if one might think so himself. 


“Jorgina!” 

“What is it?” 

“I have had no coffee this afternoon.” 

“No, you attended the funeral, and now supper is 
ready.” 

“That’s good, I’m hungry as a bear.” 

He went into the kitchen and stood with his back 
against the edge of the open door. 

“Listen now, Jorgina,” he said, as he stood and 
swung the door. “I saw in a paper a story about a 
fox who was caught in a trap.” 

“Caught in a trap?” 

“Yes, in a fox-trap, and then the fox gnawed his leg 
off—.” 

“Gnawed his leg off?—Well, I declare, I’ve never 
heard—.” 

“Yes, he gnawed his leg off to get loose.” 

“Well, now I’ve never—Can anyone do that?” 

“Of course they can—both men and beasts.” 

“Men also? But they don’t get their legs into fox- 
traps, do they?” 

“Oh, it might happen, Jorgina, but what I wanted 
to know is this: Do you think the fox will gain, or 
will he lose by gnawing his leg off?” 

“It must hurt dreadfully.” 

“We can’t consider that.” 

“Well, he wanted to save his hide, and I suppose 
that is the most important for the fox,” Jorgina 
laughed. 

The minister laughed also, but he added more se¬ 
riously: “Well, this is exactly what I wanted to ask 



134 


Waldemar Ager 


some sensible person about/’ and then he went back 
to his study. 

Jorgina laughed again. 

—If a fox gnawed his leg off—a fox in a trap. What 
a question! There are, as she had said, two kinds of 
questions. First, those that there is sense in, and then 
those that there is no sense in. 

Well, they had so much to study about, these pas¬ 
tors who were to preach every Sunday. Pastor Wan- 
gel of the Synod had studied till he got a pain in his 
back, and Pastor Nelson of the United studied till he 
forgot the names of his children. It was not strange 
that they asked questions. But what could she, a 
simple, untaught woman, answer? A fox that gnawed 
his leg off—she laughed again. Still it might be that 
Pastor Welde meant something by this talk. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Autumn had come. The elm and oak trees out 
in the garden shook off their faded leaves. The two 
large poplars that seemed to stand as guards outside 
the fence kept up bravely. The old minister had 
called them his altar lights. The wind played with the 
dry leaves and swept them about, rolled them about 
in heaps, again scattered and danced about with them. 
Among the brown leaves a white piece of paper is 
whirled. It rose up, stood on edge, crouched a mo¬ 
ment as if to watch its chance, then danced away still 
more wildly than the leaves it had been together with 
over to the fence and then alongside of it like a 
frightened bird in a cage. Now it suddenly dashes 
against the trunk of a tree as if it would try to get 
up into it and thus get away. Then it lies still; its 
strength is spent; it cares for nothing now. it only 
lies there trembling. But no, off again, with the dry 
leaves in pursuit! The wind will not let it alone— 
there it’s actually going up the wall. Jorgina ought 
to see that pieces of paper are dancing about in the 
minister’s yard. Such things surely did not happen 
either at Wangel’s of the Synod or at Nelson’s of the 
United. 

Pastor Welde, who had just returned from a sick 
call, stood smiling at the gate and watched the piece 
of paper. He went and stuck the point of his um¬ 
brella thru it. “Keep quiet and come with me— you 
are arrested,” he said. He took it and looked at it. 
It was a piece of his own writing paper. It was dated 
and contained only one line. It was a letter that he 
had begun in his own large and distinct hand: 

“Dear Maggie :—” 


136 


Waldemar Ager 


A half suppressed sigh escaped him. How could 
this have gotten outside? He crushed the paper in his 
hand and was going to throw it out into the street. 
He bethought himself, however, and carried it with 
him into the house. There was a fire in the fireplace 
now. 

Maggie Cornell's letter still lay unanswered in the 
drawer of the minister’s writing desk. It was a source 
of constant self-reproach to him. Time and again he 
had settled down to write to her, but he never got 
further than the salutation. 

“Dear Miss Cornell!” 

Here he had come to a dead stop. He never got any 
further. He was highly pleased with the heading 
and could sit and look caressingly on this “Dear!” 
But the heading stood like a stopper, shutting out 
what should follow. He had tried “Miss Maggie,” 
“Miss Cornell,” and “Miss Maggie Cornell,” with a 
“Dear Madam” following it. The latter was quite 
impossible. He had long since given up “Dear Mag¬ 
gie,” which he first tried. “Dear Miss Cornell”—that 
drew the line between them. Yet he could get no 
further. 

For the twentieth time he sat helpless and looked 
hungrily at this salutation of his. Before him lay the 
sheet of paper, clean and white. His thoughts circled 
about this clean and white paper. It was as if some¬ 
thing familiar, something of his own—something that 
said all that was to be said was encompassed in this 
“Dear Miss Cornell” at the top of the page. 

He reflected with a certain sadness that he had 
bedecked many a sheet of paper with his big letters. 
He had been flush with paper and busy with his 
pen, but all about something outside of himself. For 
instance, the letters to his home—they were for his 


Christ Before Pilate 


137 


parents. The others were business letters or letters of 
friendship. The sermons were for the congregation. 
He had been given only one sheet to fill—just one 
paper, and on this he had written only three words— 
all else was either too much or too little. 

So he was stuck there and could get no further. 

They rose before him: His old father who cherished 
such great expectations in regard to him, his place at 
the altar when he was officiating, his clerical vows— 
and then the congregation. They were in reality kind¬ 
ly people all of them. When they greeted him and 
when he talked with them, they always seemed glad 
to see him. There was so much to do. There were 
always some sick people that lay listening for his foot¬ 
steps—at least they said so—and then there was the 
young people’s society that would be scattered to the 
winds. There were so many poor that would be for¬ 
gotten, and there were also rich people who had their 
sorrows and needed consolation and encouragement. 

His eye met the picture on the wall. He was so 
used to looking at it now, and it was so large that it 
always caught the eye. Especially did the central 
figure command attention. It might be well to have 
such a picture to look at when one saw nothing else 
—no way out—and was thoroly perplexed. 

And then, he continued in his thoughts, especially 
for one like himself, who was irresolute and loath to 
say no; who carried a weak will in a strong body: it 
might be well to look at that picture. There stood 
the Savior that he, Conrad Walther Welde, had prom¬ 
ised to follow—forsaken and alone among all these 
deluded people that were filled with hatred—all were 
against Him. Where were now all those that He had 
helped? The ten lepers at one time, the blind, the 
lame, the sick, the thousands He had fed when they 
were hungry. Were they among those who cried 


138 


Waldemar Ager 


“Crucify Him?” James had fled, John had fled, Pe¬ 
ter was ready to deny Him on being questioned by a 
maid. Well, perhaps it was the very fact that the 
question came from a maiden’s lips that was fatal to 
Peter. But Jesus was forsaken and was brought be¬ 
fore a civil tribunal, to be judged by other laws and 
other conditions than those which concerned Him and 
His Kingdom. Was it not so in our times, too? 
Were there not many who denied Him in their lives 
if not with their lips? Denying with the lips was not 
the worst. It was the very ones who had confessed 
Him with their lips that had hid themselves most 
completely. When the pinch came and they were 
needed, they were gone. And among others that 
sneaked away—the champions of the faith, who stood 
and made themselves comfortable by the fire in the 
court of the high priest’s palace, while Jesus, mocked 
and reviled, was led past, was also Conrad Walther 
Welde—the man with the long name—yes, with long 
legs also. He would say to Maggie: “You know I 
had to choose you.” To his father and mother: “I 
had to give up my calling for Maggie.” To his church: 
“I feel myself unfit and not equal to the work of tak¬ 
ing care of my charge.” It was best to fib a little to 
his church. To the congregation, the flock he was 
set to take care of: “I love you very much and regret 
that I cannot serve you any longer, as circumstances 
demand that I give up my work as a minister.” It 
was best to stuff them with a really big lie. 

Then a dream of his childhood came before him. 
In his home his father had talked with his colleagues 
about the prevailing unbelief, about the laxness in life 
and doctrine, even within Lutheran congregations. He 
had spoken of the gloomy outlook for the Church of 
Christ—the attacks on it from without and the under¬ 
mining of it from within—then he, Conrad Welde, 


Christ Before Pilate 


139 


had doubled his small fists. When he grew big he 
would go out and fight like the crusaders of old. With 
a well-directed thrust of his lance he would fell to 
the ground one after another of the enemy’s mighty 
warriors. From the hard-pressed Lutheran Church 
could be heard a great shout of joy. Who was it? 
Who is it? He would turn his horse so they could 
see who it was: Conrad Walther Welde—the son of 
the minister. 

That was the time when he had imagined it as a 
battle with gleaming weapons, as in the crusades, 
or the Thirty Years’ War. Now all this had passed, 
but he remained, the young Pastor Welde—so afraid 
of offending anyone, polite, humble, loath to strike, 
because he might hurt someone. 

But—here—on the other hand—stood Maggie. 

It was she, only she—only a rather impetuous girl— 
with no claim on him but this, that she wanted him. 
He could do but little for her, while she stood ready 
to do a great deal for him, only for him. There were 
travels in foreign countries, all kinds of enjoyments 
—all just for the two of them. She would give him 
all this if she only could have him—for herself alone. 
And how gladly—oh, how gladly would he not accept 
This smiling maiden-face, these laughing eyes weighed 
heavily in the scale, tho the smile was fleeting and the 
eyes could not laugh always. It was but a passing 
thought, but it clung to him and unnerved his hand 
when he wanted to strike her with it. Yes, that was 
what he meant to do, but he did not have strength 
enough to do it. 

And how could he strike? The hand only wanted to 
caress. He longed to stroke her hair, put his arm 
about her and draw her jubilantly to his heart. 

“All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall 
down and worship me.” 


140 


Waldemar Ager 


The old cowardice! Tears in those beautiful eyes 
that met him with a laugh, even in the letter. Per¬ 
haps she would, in wounded pride, throw herself into 
the maelstrom of the fashionable world, where the 
thought of him had perhaps kept her from going 
under. Would she perhaps be lost in it? Had he not 
himself put these thoughts into her head? Was there 
not responsibility in this, too? 

But even if it were so? “What shall a man give in 
exchange for his soul?” If she offered him the whole 
world—and that she did in a way—what would it 
profit him if he lost his soul? 

And that would be the result if he left the work to 
which he was called—if he ran away from his post 
or went to sleep at his station. 

But, perhaps this “lose his soul” was a mere phrase? 
There was something back of it that let him suspect 
that to push Maggie away from him, that was indeed 
to lose his soul. He scarcely dared to think about it. 

He wondered if there was not also some egotism 
about it. He had begun to be—or felt himself to be 
somebody now. He was attached to his congregation 
and the work and shrank from giving it up, now it 
seemed so promising. 


It was perhaps cowardice. When she showed him 
all the glory of the earth and said: “All this will I give 
thee,” then he was too timid to receive and too cow¬ 
ardly to say, “Get thee hence, Maggie.” 

“Dear Maggie!” 


He had a large enough body—and strength. He 
rose and began to practice some gymnastic feats with 
his arms. The Lord had certainly given him a good 
body, even if he had made little use of it. He looked 
searchingly about the room for something heavy on 




Christ Before Pilate 


141 


which he could try his strength. There stood the sofa. 
Before him stood a picture of two men panting with 
exertion, as they carried it from the furniture wagon. 
He bent down, took hold of the head-end and put it 
against his breast. It certainly was heavy. He felt 
how the muscles in his arms and back were knotted 
and it fairly tingled up his back. The blood rushed 
into his face, as he lifted the whole sofa from the 
head-end. He let it fall down again and pulled it 
out and examined it on all sides. He took hold of the 
middle, lifted it up and held it there a little while. 
Then he remembered that he had seen an expressman 
carry one on his back. He set it on end, put his back 
under it and lifted it. It was not heavy. He let it 
thump a little. When he was to set it down it came 
down with a bump—more from excitement than care¬ 
lessness, for in the doorway stood Jorgina, with both 
hands lifted: “God in heaven!” she exclaimed, but 
could get no further. She looked as if she might faint 
when she saw the minister standing in his office with 
the sofa on his back, while the sweat poured down his 
face. 

It took some moments for Welde to collect his 
thoughts. He was red and hot. “Pm trying my 
strength,” he said eagerly. “No one knows how strong 
I am; I can lift that sofa like nothing. Sit down in 
that chair—no, the other one is stronger. Now, then, 
don't be afraid, only sit still. Now we’ll lift both Jor¬ 
gina and the chair, and on straight arms too.” 

Jorgina screamed aloud and laughed and clung to 
the chair when he lifted it. Her short, breathless 
laugh was heard thru all the rooms as she passed on 
to the kitchen. If Welde wasn’t crazy, he soon would 
be. But there he was, a mere boy—so to speak—and 
such might be up to both this and that. It was for¬ 
tunate that he had an old person about—or if not just 


142 


Waldemar Ager 


“old/’ an elderly person at any rate. It was not al¬ 
ways the years that counted either. Jorgina’s wrinkled 
hands went up to her cheeks. They were warm. She 
tied her apron strings tighter about her. 

Pastor Welde drew long breaths as he sat in his 
office. The perspiration had begun to pour down on 
account of the violent exertion, and he had to sit down 
and wipe it away from hand and face. He had re¬ 
covered his balance and looked at the sofa with a sat¬ 
isfied air. Why had he not thought of this before? 

That big, flat, lazy, lifeless thing. It really tempted 
one to indolence. He went and lay down on it and 
stretched himself with keen enjoyment. For once he 
felt bodily tired, and that was a most pleasurable sen¬ 
sation. 

He lay there quite a while with his hands under his 
head. It was only foolishness this notion about his 
heart not being strong; a pretext so as to make a min¬ 
ister out of him. If there was anything that needed 
a strong heart, it was the pastor’s work. Thru the 
open window came a fresh breeze filled with the odor 
of dead and decaying plant-life. 


CHAPTER XV 


Thruout the autumn and winter the membership 
of the congregation had greatly increased, and the at¬ 
tendance at the services was very good. Pastor Welde 
was happy. The spiritual battles that he had fought 
alone in his study had deepened his sensibilities. He 
still prepared his sermons with the same care as be¬ 
fore, tho as a speaker he could not be compared with 
the old minister. The growing congregation gave 
him a higher standing with those outside. At the 
spring election, when the no-license question came up, 
he was the leader in the fight. At a mass meeting he 
spoke in German to the Germans, after first having- 
given the opening speech in English and addressed 
his own countrymen in the Norwegian language. No 
wonder that American pastors were struck with amaze¬ 
ment. 

The newspapers praised him. The best circles in 
society were open to him, and even Brooten, the bank 
president, felt rather insignificant by the side of the 
popular preacher. 

In Welde himself no change could be seen. He was 
irreproachable and precise in his manner, he took his 
usual walks and greeted all with the same considera¬ 
tion. 

It had, however, given some offence that he would 
give a party for such people as Ole Narvesen and his 
wife and Mrs. Andrew Thompson and her husband. 
Everybody knew what kind of a man Ole was—or 
rather had been. Now he was the president of the 
newly organized temperance society, and he already 
prided himself on being better than others. They 
knew, however, thank God. what he had been, and 


144 


Waldemar Ager 


such could not be very suitable company for Pastor 
Welde. Then there was Dr. Spohr, who was both 
a free-thinker and a free-mason. That the pastor 
often spent whole evenings there, till late at night— 
why, they all knew that; but what he did there—that 
was a different thing. 

Furthermore he had taken part in the work of the 
total abstinence society. That some of the reformed 
drunkards in the church had become conceited was 
bad enough, and now those drunkards that were left 
had only grown worse. In this society there were 
even Baptists and Methodists; some that were not 
baptized at all and others that had been baptized 
ever so many times. He had spoken there and had 
even brought the excellent church choir there. He 
had wanted them to have the basement of the church 
for their meetings, but thank God, they had prevented 
that. Brooten did not want any politics in the church. 

However, as long as the congregation prospered, 
it was all right. That solid plug kept the discontent 
from getting out. All agreed that he had a way of 
drawing people. 

But still the discontent lay there preying in secret. 
There were men in the congregation who formerly 
had given fifty dollars a year and who, under the old 
minister’s regime, had for that reason been highly 
esteemed. Now they felt themselves slighted and put 
in the background for a fellow like Ole Narvesen, who 
scarcely ever had paid his minimum contribution of 
two dollars a year. In return they cut down their 
own contributions and put themselves down for six 
or twelve dollars a year, so in spite of the growth of 
the congregation the treasury was at low ebb. The 
elders in the church shrugged their shoulders and 
glanced sadly and knowingly at each other. It was 
this temperance society and the young people’s society 


Christ Before Pilate 


145 


with all their festivals and fandangoes that drew the 
money from the people so they soon would have noth¬ 
ing left to sustain the Church of God. 

Welde understood nothing of this. He saw only 
friendly, respectful faces. He lived and breathed in* 
all this prosperity. Only he felt himself unworthy 
to count this as his work. He firmly believed that 
it was the seed, the Word of God, that brought forth 
fruit, and he was glad that he was permitted to work 
and care for this as well as he knew how. His days 
were full of sunshine. 

Mosevig had been doing poorly during the winter, 
and the situation grew worse and worse. They had 
a siege of sickness, and when they had passed thru 
that he had difficulty in gathering his flock again. 
They paid their part of the minister’s salary but at¬ 
tended Welde’s church. Some lived nearer to that 
church, others had different excuses. 

It gave Mr. Welde an almost physical pain to meet 
Pastor Mosevig on the street. The bony fingers grew 
more bent, the clothes still more shabby. Once, when 
he was seated next to Mosevig on the platform at a 
no-license meeting, he had noticed that a piece had 
been set in at the elbow of his black coat. It could 
plainly be seen that no tailor had done it. Perhaps 
his wife had patched it. Welde felt a choking sen¬ 
sation. It was considered a big thing in every fam¬ 
ily, he thought, for Mosevig to be invited to sit on 
the platform of the largest American church in town. 
Then his wife had tried her hand on tailoring and had 
mended the coat so that her husband might be pre¬ 
sentable. Perhaps she was in the audience and had 
seen that he had noticed the patch. 

He had at first been seated by the side of Judge 
Steward, who presided at the meeting; but he had 
moved his chair and seated himself by Mosevig. The 


146 


Waldemar Ager 


Norwegian pastors ought to sit together, but Mosevig 
had moved away a little. He had looked at him and 
had had that same half-timid and helpless expression 
on his face that Welde had noticed before. He under¬ 
stood it now. Mosevig had felt embarrassed by his 
seating himself beside him. He seemed quite lost in 
his old coat—in spite of all the pains his wife had 
taken with it. Welde would have spoken to him— 
as to a companion, so all could see that they were 
brother clergymen, but there was something that com¬ 
manded respect in these shabby and thread-bare 
clothes. Welde felt himself despised in his fine clothes 
—and rightfully, too. Did they not preach the same 
Word of God? Did they not serve the same Master? 

The worst of all was to hear Mosevig sigh arid 
mumble something with that big protruding mouth 
back of the thin, sparse beard. Something was work¬ 
ing within this man—something that hurt, hurt dread¬ 
fully, which God in His heaven heard and saw. 


He could not get rid of him. Mosevig appeared 
before his inner consciousness when he stood in the 
pulpit, when he was in the young people’s society, on 
the street, and when he was comfortably seated at 
Dr. Spohr’s playing whist with him and his Danish 
wife, who could play “dummy” with great bravado 
and prepare platefuls of the most delicious sandwiches, 
which they in Danish fashion would nibble at while 
playing. The maid would serve coffee later on— 
Mosevig appeared again. 

Welde sometimes dreamt about him—that he was 
wrestling with him for his very life. He saw the 
furious and contorted face—he tried to hold him fast, 
to show him how strong he was. Then Mosevig 
seemed to vanish, and it was only a child—a helpless 



Christ Before Pilate 


147 


child, worn out with we'eping, that he had wrestled 
with. 

Once he dreamed that he was officiating at the al¬ 
tar. The church was filled. The choir did not get 
in with the response, “And with Thy spirit,” properly. 
He glanced up to where they were standing and saw 
only a woman with a child in her arms. When he 
looked at the audience, he saw no people—only 
clothes. There lay coats and hats, ladies’ coats and 
shawls—the seats were filled with clothes, but down 
by the door Mosevig stood and smote himself upon 
his breast, saying: “God, be merciful to me a sinner.” 
In his dream Welde had felt that Mosevig did this to 
accuse him and he wanted to go down to him and 
lead him up to the altar—he wanted to be magnan¬ 
imous. But he got his feet entangled in the clothes 
and fell. The clothes grew in large heaps about him 
so he had to climb over them. There were clothes, 
clothes everywhere. Then he understood that this 
was not the church—he was submerged in Wilburg 
and Thompson’s large clothing store and Mosevig was 
the only one that could help him. He lay there strug¬ 
gling and was nearly choked—and awoke covered with 
cold perspiration. 

He remembered also another dream. He was in 
Norway—he knew it must be Norway. It was Inde¬ 
pendence Day and he was to speak. He was willing, 
too, but not prepared. He could not think of anything 
to say, but with his anxiety over this a great joy was 
mingled. He was in the land of his childhood dreams, 
where all, even the children, could speak Norwegian. 
The sun was warm and his heart was filled with 
thanksgiving. The Stars and Stripes were floating 
from every hill-top and the hills were like large, grass 
covered bluffs. The roads were bad, and he had to 
climb over large stone walls and he did not under- 


148 Waldemar Ager 

stand how people could get anywhere. Then he found 
himself standing on a wall so high that he could not 
get down. He became alarmed, for he was to make 
a speech. There was a large gathering somewhere 
awaiting him, here he stood and could get nowhere. 

Then he remembered these words: “Cast thyself 
down; for it is written, He shall give His angels 
charge concerning thee lest thou dash thy foot against 
a stone.” So he went to the edge and began to climb 
down, tho he knew there was little to take hold of. 
He lost his grasp and floated lightly down. He was 
not hurt—he was in the midst of the festive throng. 
He understood that he had made his speech and knew 
that he had spoken both of civic liberty and the liberty 
that is given by Jesus Christ—where and when, that 
he did not understand, but he knew that he had made 
that speech. His father and mother were there. His 
father seemed so pleased and proud and his mother 
was there, and this was Norway. He was so happy. 
He wanted to give the little boys money, for they 
were all so poor, most likely; but when he put his 
hand in his pocket it was empty. He then wanted to 
give something else. He remembered his pen knife 
with a mother of pearl handle. He put his hand in 
his pocket again, but found it full of earth. He 
hunted in the other pockets, they were also filled with 
earth. He was nearly crying, because he had nothing 
to give the urchins, who stood and waited for some¬ 
thing and he again thrust his hand into the pockets 
but found only earth. “I have nothing here, my lad,” 
he said to the nearest one, “but I have a fine knife 
with a mother of pearl handle that I’ll give you and 
I have money and interesting books, and many, many 
things.” Then he understood that the boy was not 
satisfied with this, so he took him and was going to 
lift him way up in the air and show him how strong 


Christ Before Pilate 


149 


he was—but the boy was too heavy, he could not lift 
him. Then he knelt down, drew him close and kissed 
him—then he saw that it was Mosevig and that they 
were all alone, and he wept with a joy that he could 
not explain. 


Thus Pastor Welde fought with his dreams by night 
and his thoughts by day. This shabby, threadbare, 
raw-boned parson let him have no peace. 

One evening at a meeting of the young people’s 
society, someone had with a whisper and a sidelong 
glance told him that Pastor Mosevig’s daughter was 
at the meeting. He had cast a curious glance in that 
direction and had seen a pale girl, with a hat that 
was quite out of style and with a thin boa across the 
narrow shoulders. So that was she? He stole a look 
at her every now and then—it really was she, then. 

He could not take his eyes away from her. It was 
as if a claim or a bill was being presented—and he 
was trying to find out how large it was. 

He would shake hands with her; show her that re¬ 
spect because she was Pastor Mosevig’s daughter. 
On further consideration he understood that this might 
easily be misinterpreted. “Presume the old man, too, 
will be coming soon,” someone beside him had whis¬ 
pered confidentially and triumphantly. This jarred 
on Mr. Welde’s ears. It certainly was not strange 
that the girl went where so many young people came 
together. Perhaps there was a boy that she expected 
to meet here. He would not let on that he knew she 
was there. 

But when the meeting had adjourned and he shook 
hands with some of the young people, down by the 
door, she suddenly appeared close by. He put out his 
hand and took a strangely warm and trembling little 
hand that made him quite embarrassed: “Miss Mose- 



150 


Waldemar Ager 


vig, if I’m not mistaken,” he said. She blushed and 
drew her hand away. He was afraid that someone 
might have seen it and turned away and even shook 
hands with some that he had greeted before. It struck 
him as remarkable that no other hand was like hers. 
It must be a hallucination, he thought, because he had 
been thinking so often of her father. 


He looked for her at the next meeting, but she was 
not there. She was present at the following meeting, 
but left before it closed. He noticed that she had a 
brand-new coat. The room was warm, but she sat 
with it closely buttoned. Together with a couple of 
girl friends from Mosevig’s church, she came and 
went almost unnoticed. They sat by themselves like 
some strange birds attracted by the bright light that 
emanated from the bright and happy crowd of young 
people in Welde’s congregation. 

Few, if any, spoke to them, and they disappeared as 
little noticed as they had come. 

The winter passed and Welde began to take his reg¬ 
ular walks as far as the mill-pond, when it was not 
too wet and muddy. 

It was interesting to see the logs come floating 
and pile themselves together. The men stood with 
their long pike poles and with well directed thrusts 
led them into their different log-booms. Some were 
sent over the rapids; the others should wait their 
turn. Now and then the men drove their poles into a 
piece of wood and lifted it up on the log bridge. They 
kept that themselves. The logs came floating slowly 
but surely. The same fate awaited them all. They 
were to be made into buildings at last. And because 
some of the sunlight and heat from previous years 
was hoarded in them, nothing should be wasted; 
even the refuse should give warmth and light at the 
hearth of some home. 



Christ Before Pilate 


151 


Was it not thus with people also? Was there not 
within them some latent, God-given good that could 
be used? Some logs sank; these were left lying along 
the banks to rot. It was somebody’s fault surely— 
they had not been taken care of. They had grown in 
vain. 


Thus mused Pastor Welde, and the dark logs took on 
life and meaning. It was just at the turn of the road 
that he met her. He lifted his hat. 

She stopped with a frightened look. 

“Miss Mosevig, if I’m not mistaken. Did I scare 
you ?” 

“No, sir,” she answered shortly and out of breath. 

He told her that he used to take his afternoon walks 
in this direction. He was now on his way home. How 
beautiful it was up here. If he had not been a mini¬ 
ster, he’d be a lumber-jack. Perhaps she didn’t be¬ 
lieve that. 

She looked sidewise to where he was walking. He 
saw that she was red and embarrassed; but there was 
something like a skeptical smile on her lips. She 
walked on in silence and let him talk. 

He saw that she had a shabby hat. The coat was 
the same one that he had seen her with at the society. 
She was anghlar like her father. Her complexion was 
not good. She looked cowed. There was nothing to 
her, but just because there was nothing worth notic¬ 
ing about her, he went to an extreme by conducting 
himself as if she possessed all the things she did not 
have. He was like a debtor who tries to make him¬ 
self agreeable to a creditor whose claims he cannot 
pay. 

She seemed quite timid and bashful. He remem¬ 
bered that he had heard her laugh. Why didn’t she 



152 


Waldemar Ager 


laugh now? Could he get her to laugh? He glanced 
down at her just as she happened to look up at him. 
He knew he was blushing, for his ears and the back 
of his head felt warm. She certainly had a pair of 
eyes, when she opened them. She also had beautiful 
hair. It was heavy and lay like a cloud under her hat, 
reddish-brown and wavy. He became preoccupied 
and talked about the weather while he swung his cane 
and looked right ahead and tried to compare her with 
Maggie; but it seemed impossible to think of Maggie 
now. The humblest reality is enough to dispel the 
most beautiful dream. She walked in silence, with 
short, energetic steps. 

Her answers were only Yes and No. It was im¬ 
possible to carry on any conversation with her. About 
the church, the society, or her father, he dared not 
speak. The road wound around the river and bluffs 
—they had to be in company. There was no way out 
of it, and he felt a certain pleasure in walking and 
talking about this and that. 

Now they were on the last hill-side from which the 
road passed on to town. A lumber wagon with a 
large load stood there, stuck fast in a mud hole. A 
boy stood and held the lines and whipped up the hor¬ 
ses, while his father put his shoulder against the wheel 
and tried to get the wagon out. He took hold, the 
boy yelled at the horses and struck them with the 
whip, but the wagon stood as if rooted to the ground. 
They had evidently kept on a long time, for the far¬ 
mer was sweaty and steam rose from the horses. 

Mr. Welde and his companion stopped and took in 
the situation. Pastor Welde pulled off his gloves, his 
spring overcoat and his sack coat and looked about for 
a place to put them. “I can hold them for you,” she 
said. Then he took off his cuffs and gave them to 
her, and also his cane, rolled up his shirt sleeves and 


Christ Before Pilate 


153 


placed himself at the other side of the wagon. He 
took hold of the wagon box with one hand and the 
wheel with the other, placing himself close up to the 
muddy wagon to get a firm hold. 

“Now let us try! All together—one, two, three—!” 

Out came the wagon with a jerk so that the horses 
started on a run. The farmer had not let go quick 
enough; he fell flat in the mud. Only a hissing ejacu¬ 
lation escaped him, and that was: “The devil!” 

When the pastor looked about for the girl, he saw 
her laughing, laughing hysterically, so that she was 
nearly choking. The minister, who was smeared with 
mud, had to laugh also. It looked as tho she could 
not stop. She laughed until her eyes were filled with 
tears. She looked as if she might sit right down in 
the road to have her laugh out. 

Mr. Welde noticed how the laughter seemed to fill 
out the loose cloak, and the quivering young body 
seemed to threaten to burst the Kersey covering. “Did 
you hear what he said?” she gasped. “Did you hear 
it? Wasn’t it awful? Wasn’t it dreadful?” 

The minister had with great deliberation begun to 
wipe off the mud with his handkerchief and to put 
on his cuffs and coat. Now he was pulling his gloves 
on over his soiled hands. 

“But it’s really dreadful that a minister and a min¬ 
ister’s daughter should laugh because a man says 
something so shocking,” he said with a smile. “Well, 
we found out that he was a Norwegian anyway, since 
he swore in that language.” 

“Yes, but he doesn’t belong to papa’s church.” 

“So — you will perhaps — well, I’ll have him dis¬ 
ciplined if he belongs to ours.” 

It seemed as if this accident had loosened her 
tongue. Welde was not so dreadfully swell after all. 
She felt as if she was on a more equal footing with him 


154 


Waldemar Ager 


now, when he was covered with mud. Welde was 
somewhat constrained under the feeling of being 
soiled. The soiled shirt sleeves and the muddy shoul¬ 
der under the coat must have caused it. 

They reached town at last and parted to go home. 

The next time the young people’s society met she 
came and went unnoticed as she used to do. Mr. 
Welde had decided not to show her more attention 
than before, and greeted her in a distant but polite 
manner, as he did the others. Not with a look would 
he betray that she had often been in his thoughts. 
But when he had seen her thin figure squeeze thru 
the door, with the rest, he had a feeling of regret 
and had reproached himself because he had not spoken 
to her. 

The next time she stayed away, and he was not sor¬ 
ry- 

Later they had an ice-cream social in the society. 
Pastor Welde had made a speech and sat on the plat¬ 
form across from where the members of the society 
had seated themselves. He noticed that some of the 
most fashionable young ladies in the choir sat nearly 
bursting with suppressed laughter, that they whis¬ 
pered among themselves and cast stolen glances to¬ 
wards the audience and hid their faces in their song- 
books to conceal their laughter. 

The pastor followed their glances and—he became 
burning hot. Over there, farther to the front than 
usual, sat Miss Mosevig with a most remarkable mon¬ 
ster of a hat. Large hats were in style, but this one 
was the limit. He caught a word from Theodora 
Brooten. It was whispered quite audibly: “The Mor¬ 
mon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City.” They laughed 
again. Yes, they were laughing at the hat. It was 
really very queer and not unlike the famous taber- 



Christ Before Pilate 


155 


nacle. On top of the girl’s thin and angular figure it 
reminded one of a brimless Derby hat hung on an 
umbrella. 

He looked in that direction again and met her eye. 
She sat there with an air almost defiantly proud and 
happy. The hat must have cost many dollars. It 
was evident that she thought she was as fine as any 
one. 

He was suddenly seized with anxiety lest she should 
understand that they laughed at her and her expensive 
hat. The tittering girls at his right were still uneasy 
and became bolder by degrees. He looked at them 
with a clerical, reproachful look, befitting his orders, 
that usually proved effective, but now it was like put¬ 
ting oil on fire. It was impossible to be severe to all 
these pretty, smiling faces, an almost imperceptible 
smile must have hovered about his own mouth; for 
now they had still more difficulty in keeping them¬ 
selves from laughing and whispering. 

What if she should notice it? Women are sharp 
at discovering such things. 

Yes—she had understood it. When he looked in 
that direction the big hat seemed to have sunk down 
between the rows of seats. She sat huddled together 
between her friends. Only the big, black crown of 
her hat was now visible. Her two friends bent down 
to her and whispered. Did they ask her what was the 
matter? Did she cry perhaps? A strong feeling of 
pity came over him. He was intently turning over 
the leaves in his pocket Bible that he held in his 
hand, but he was not reading. 

When they began to serve lunch he walked up to 
Ellen Mosevig and shook hands with her and her 
friends—two servant girls that belonged to her fa¬ 
ther’s congregation. He sat down and talked with 
them. They were both of them very talkative. Ellen 


156 


Waldemar Ager 


sat silent and dejected. One of her friends explained 
that she had an awful toothache. “I’d like to make 
you acquainted with some of the girls here,” he said 
suddenly and went and got Miss Brooten and a couple 
of other girls along and introduced them to Miss 
Mosevig and her friends. He asked them to sit down 
and they all had ice-cream together. Miss Brooten 
and the others suddenly became very attentive toward 
the three girls, for now they had the pastor in their 
midst. 

He stood by the door when she went. He again 
noticed that the clasp of her hand was different from 
that of all the others. 

But she never came to the meetings any more. 


CHAPTER XVI 


In some mystical way this awkward girl that he 
scarcely knew had entered into the pastor’s emotional 
life. He might take the trouble to reason this out 
and his common sense would tell him straight out 
that she was neither pretty nor intelligent. His com¬ 
mon sense told him that the girl liked to deck her¬ 
self out with cheap finery, that she really intended to 
make an impression by buying the biggest hat in 
Garrison’s millinery establishment, without taking in¬ 
to consideration whether it was becoming or not. But 
her very awkwardness attracted him; her foolishness, 
her oddities, the new coat and even the hat attracted 
him. She had perhaps relied on these things to make 
her presentable to the well-dressed young people in 
town. She wished perhaps to represent Pastor Mose- 
vig in a worthy manner—that it was for her father’s 
sake she did it. That others made fun of her, at¬ 
tracted him. The firm, warm hand, calloused from 
work, attracted him. 

But more than everything else, the feeling that she 
had some kind of a claim on him; that he owed her 
something, would draw him. 

He was really afraid of her. Not that she would 
reproach him in any way, but her whole manner of 
being seemed to beg one not to take anything away 
from her, because she had so little. 

It would be a great sin to take anything away 
from such, even if it were only a hope. 

There was something that drew him in another way, 
too. It was her uncontrollable fit of laughter on the 
hillside. It was the first time in a long while that he 
had heard real laughter that had come from the heart. 


158 


Waldemar Ager 


She was a child of nature—she could both laugh and 
cry. This artlessness had warmed him. People took 
lessons to learn how to both laugh and cry—properly 
—nowadays. The newspapers gave directions to 
those who could not afford lessons. It was in human 
nature, like all other nature, the sharp transitions that 
attracted attention. 

He thought of Maggie, who now presumably moved 
in the best circles in Paris and was made a great deal 
of on account of her beauty, intelligence, and talents. 
He felt an aching void within, he longed to put his 
arms about someone who needed protection and help. 
Something like hunger gnawed at his heart. It would 
be best to take into his arms someone who was scorned 
and persecuted, who thus would obtain redress from 
grievances. 


The object of all these speculations was at home 
alone and had a friend with her to keep her company. 
Pastor Mosevig and wife had gone to Minneapolis 
and had taken the two smallest children with them. 
Ellen Mosevig and her friend filled the small room 
with their laughter and chatter. They talked of course 
about fellows, sweethearts, and such things. 

If Pastor Welde had seen her now as she stood 
by the sink, washing dishes, he might have found her 
quite attractive. Her friend stood and laughed and 
wiped dishes while Ellen washed and talked. Now 
and then she pushed the hair away from her fore¬ 
head with her thumb or fastened a hairpin. There 
was always something the matter with her hair. Her 
mouth laughed and her eyes laughed. The laughter 
lay awaiting behind every sentence and trembled in 
the rich, deep, throbbing turns of the voice. The words 
seemed to chase each other up from a breast where the 
heart carried on as it pleased. 



Christ Before Pilate 


159 


She was telling about her meeting with Pastor 
Welde. 

“But what did you say then?” 

“I didn’t say anything. What could I say, anyway? 
I only walked along and thought of all that papa had 
told and about all I’ve learned in Sunday School, how 
really good girls must behave, so as to come to God 
in Heaven.” 

“Oh, my, you’re awful, Ellen; but didn’t you say 
anything at all?” 

“No, it was he who said it all.” 

“But what did he say then?” 

“Goodness, he talked about everything; about those 
who were on the drive and about motorcycles and 
chimney-sweeps and concerts and Roosevelt and the 
heathens in Alabama or wherever it was.” 

“Well, what did you do?” 

“I walked along like a fool, of course, and thought 
about what papa always says, that if I keep my mouth 
shut, no one will know how stupid I am.” 

“But didn’t he ask you about anything?” 

“Yes, he asked me if I was fond of music, and I 
answered Yes, and then he asked what kind of music 
I liked, and I said Yes to that also, I believe. I was 
so full of laughter.” 

“Of laughter—are you crazy?” 

“Yes, he was so swell, you see. He had gloves, 
cane, cuffs, all so fine, so fine, a real dude so precise 
and thoughful, so careful not to get near me. When 
I slipped and came near falling, he put out his hand 
like Moses in our altar painting; but he did not come 
near me. He took care to leave so much space be¬ 
tween us that— 

“—So that old fellow of yours, Jack, could have 
gotten in between you,” interrupted her friend. 

“Oh, he,” laughed Ellen—“He might have driven 


160 


Waldemar Acer 


between us with his bakery wagon; well, he takes 
a little more room now after he got to be a clerk in 
the bakery, you know.” 

They both laughed. 

“But now comes the funny part. Just as I walked 
along, wishing myself far away at the new missionary 
station in Madagascar, because I was trying hard to 
keep from laughing, we came to a farmer wagon 
stuck in the mud. Thank God, I thought, now we’ll 
get something to talk about that I can understand, and 
I was going to say something about the poor horses 
—now, do you know what he did?” 

Miss Mosevig struck an attitude: “Would you be 
so kind, Miss Mosevig, as to hold this for me?” She 
took the comb carefully out of her hair and placed it 
on the arm of her friend—“and this, if I may ask?” 
She pulled off an imaginary pair of gloves, while she 
put the dish rag under her arm as a cane—“and this?” 
She handed her the dish rag with a sober mien—“and 
this?” She made some motions as if she pulled a coat 
off and handed it to her—“and this, if it is not too 
much for you, Miss Mosevig?” She pretended to take 
off a pair of cuffs with great care from her bare arms 
and loaded all this on her friend, who stood with her 
mouth open, intensely expectant. 

“What then?” she asked, “What did he do? Hurry 
up and tell me!” 

Ellen put her shoulders back and marched with long, 
dignified steps over to the kitchen stove. She turned 
her gaze upward and pulled at a pair of imaginary 
shirtsleeves. 

“Then he bent down and took hold of that awfully 
muddy wheel this way, and put his shoulder so, 
‘one, two, three,’ he said, ‘all together.’ ‘Hey, there! 
said the farmer, and he was going to push, too, but 
he fell his full length, for the wagon came out at 


Christ Before Pilate 


161 


once when the minister took hold. ‘The devil/ he said 
—the farmer, you understand—he got both hands in 
the mud. I stood so sober; but when I saw what the 
minister looked like—the whole shirt-front and the 
white vest and the fine shirtsleeves—then I laughed 
till I thought I should die laughing—I was hardly 
able to stop/’ V 

At the recollection of this Ellen gave a fair repre¬ 
sentation of how she had laughed, and her friend with 
her. 

“But didn’t he understand that you laughed at him 
then?” 

“No, I blamed it to the farmer and what he said, 
and then he laughed also.” 

“Oh, my, how funny you are, Ellen.” 

“A sick cat would have had to laugh at it.” 

“Have you seen him since?” 

“Not since that time in the young people’s society. 
To tell the truth, I’ve scolded myself ever since. It 
was horrid to sit and laugh and bite my handkerchief 
at such a meeting; but the girls in the choir laughed 
also. It just came over me that way.” 

“Oh, my, but I was ashamed when the minister 
came over and talked to us. I thought, at first, he 
would ask what we laughed at.” 

“Did you notice how sad he looked when he talked 
to us? I’m sure he prayed for us because we were 
so wicked/' 

“You mean ill-bred, don’t you?” 

“Yes, that also—well, it was horrid, but I don’t 
care. We belong to another church, anyway. If we 
are to weep, we must do it in our own church—isn’t 
that so?” 

“Why, you are perfectly awful, Ellen — I am 
shocked.” 


162 


Waldemar Ager 


Her friend viewed her with pride and pretended 
motherliness. 


Mr. Welde was about to try something that he had 
thought of for a long time. He had procured some 
pastel colors and would try to paint something, far 
up along the river. He wanted to be alone and went 
farther than usual. Miss Jorgina had looked very 
suspiciously at him when he went off with the flat, 
mysterious-looking package. 

At a place farther up, the river widened and there 
were steep sand stone rocks. That would be some¬ 
thing worth trying his hand on. He seated himself 
on a half-decayed log, opened his packages and got 
ready. 

This would have been a fine landscape if it had 
not been for all the marks left by the axes of the log¬ 
gers. On these hillsides and in these ravines, the 
pines had ruled supreme. Now there were only slen¬ 
der foliferous trees in the place of the tall, straight 
pines. It was fine if one only looked at it casually, but 
on closer inspection it reminded one of a battle-field. 
How could he get this painted? Worst of all were 
the old, dry roots of trees that were left and lay there 
sprawling, after the soil had been washed away. There, 
in the fissure of a rock, stood one. The tree had been 
cut down and the stump hung black and rotten over 
the water and exhibited its old death-wound. The 
black, dry root lay there yet fumbling and sprawling, 
trying to hold fast a while yet. Not to gather food for 
anything or to keep anything up—only a weak death 
grip to make a show of its mutilation. Like giant 
spiders they lay and clung to the stones and crevices. 
The hard, withered roots still tried to hold the stump 
up to the light. Ugly were they. There is always 
something dismal about bared roots. By the edge 



Christ Before Pilate 


163 


of the water others lay sprawling as if in a death- 
cramp, with bent, twisted, and palsied fingers. Some 
lay under the water and stretched out their black, 
tough claws towards the boats that passed by. A 
wilderness of hatred and despair were these roots, that 
once held communion with the birds of the air and 
the worms in the bowels of the earth. The ax had 
done its work. 

They contained latent sunlight and heat, these ugly 
roots. They might have given warmth and heat to 
some hearth in the cold winter nights; but none had 
use for this warmth and light. It took too much exer¬ 
tion to get anything out of these tough and crooked 
roots, so they lay there and became hardened and evil¬ 
looking. 

A battlefield where even the corpses were demon¬ 
strating. 

Mr. Welde sat there daubing with his colors. He 
was no master, and the roots of the trees became 
hard, brownish-black fingers that grimly scratched 
the rocks and the river bank. Young, leafy trees 
rose among them. No more should the pines rule 
over them. The slender trunks were full of curiosity 
as they stretched themselves up among the stumps. 

Mr. Welde put his things together. It was not so 
easy as he had thought. It was fortunate that he had 
been able to dabble with this unseen by any man. 


He sat looking at what he had put together. It was 
only a daub. He remembered that Maggie had told 
him that unsuccessful marine painters used to make 
“burning ships” when they had spoiled a canvas. In 
this “fire” all the technical errors were drowned and 
the imagination given full play. Could he find some¬ 
thing wherewith to redeem his daub? He looked 



164 


Waldemar Ager 


about and there, in the path right behind him, stood 
—Ellen Mosevig. 

He was really frightened as if he had been caught 
doing something wrong. He arose embarrassed and 
greeted her. 

“Is it you? Are you roaming about all alone?” 

“May I see it?” she asked, as he was about to put 
away his unsuccessful sketch. He showed it to her 
with some hesitation. 

“Isn’t it fine? Oh, but isn’t it lovely? Can you 
really draw like that?” 

“Do you really think it is nice?” said the minister. 
“There are some small faults about it,” he laughed. 
“Here is the river; it is a little askew. It stands 
a little on end and slants upward. Then there are 
the trees, for all these green patches are supposed to 
be trees. To make leaves is an extra trick that we 
did not learn in our theological class; but if I label it, 
‘Made by a minister,’ people will not be so low as 
to criticise such things. This is the fore-ground, 
which is blank; it bears witness to the artist’s modesty 
that he had not gotten so far that he could get it all 
in,” 

He laughed at his fancies, but she stared both at 
him and at the picture with the frankest admiration. 
“Can you paint yourself also as sitting on that log?” 
she asked. 

“I—no—that wouldn’t do; but seat yourself there, 
and I’ll try to get you in the picture.” 

“I—what if someone should see it?” 

“Well, then they would buy it from me at once. 
Sit down and sit erect as a Lutheran minister’s daugh¬ 
ter ought to sit. Afterwards you may tell me how 
you happened to come here and run across a decent 
and perfecty harmless man.” 


Christ Before Pilate 


165 


She had seated herself and sat like one posing for a 
photograph. “Now, please look thoughtful/' 

“But I'm not thoughtful. Papa says I'm always 
thoughtless." 

“All right. Look thoughtless then. It’s ail the 
same provided you look natural." 

He scratched a female figure first, and then the log 
she sat on. Yes, it actually became a picture. The 
gray skirt and the white shirtwaist—the great wealth 
of hair under the big, flat “merry widow" hat. This 
was a burning ship, all right. Maggie! Maggie! Oh, 
if you could see me now! Pastor Welde was in ex¬ 
cellent humor. True, the log sagged conspicuously 
where the young girl sat, but that was a mere trifle. 
Now she sat there, while the black roots crawled 
and sprawled all around her. 

Ellen Mosevig put her finger on the figure and said: 
“So that’s me." 

“Yes, now I have you, Miss Mosevig." 

She burst out laughing, and he laughed, too. He 
realized that he had said something that he should 
not have said. He had had long experience and was 
really an expert in conversation with young ladies 
without saying anything that could be construed as 
a flirtation. This one did not belong to the congre¬ 
gation, however, so he felt he could be more free 
with her. But all thoughts of church affairs were far 
away from him just then. 

She gave him an arch look from the side, as if she 
wanted to have some fun with him. He had seated 
himself on the log and had commenced to put his 
things together again. His face had become sober. 
She sighed—drew a long breath. He looked up. 

“I suppose you intend to have me lying in that box," 
she said. 

“Was that why you sighed so deeply?" 


166 


Waldemar Ager 


“Yes, that was it.” 

“So you don’t like that?” 

“No—I know, of course, that we shall all have to 
go down into a box at last, but— 

“You don’t like to think of that,” interrupted the 
minister; “well, I don’t like it myself, either,” he said 
frankly, by way of consolation. 

Ellen sat poking her parasol into the sand. She 
had come because she was to meet Jack at this place. 
This she had, of course, to keep to herself. When 
the minister began to talk about the box into which 
we shall have to go at last and that we ought to think 
about it, she bent her head in preparation for a ser¬ 
mon—one that she had deserved. She had heard so 
many when she had blurted out something frivolous. 
She must sit quite devout—and at the same time have 
an eye on the path at the left, where she expected 
Jack to come. 

Welde was thru and sat with one knee placed 
against his folded hands. Ellen felt that he was 
watching her—and that was true. He looked at her 
shabby clothes, the worn blouse that in places only 
seemed to be held together by the starch. He noticed 
the threadbare gloves and it touched him to see the 
brass pin on her breast. Her people must be very 
poor. She sat there quite embarrassed, tho she was 
in reality of a gay and cheerful nature—even a little 
roguish, but free and natural. 

“I think I must go now,” said Ellen suddenly and 
got up. 

“Are you so busy? Well, you likely have some er¬ 
rand—and I have got you safe in my box now—and 
can take you home with me,” he added. He did not 
want her to leave him so dejected. 

She seated herself again, this time a little closer to 
him, and looked searchingly at him. She was seized 


Christ Before Pilate 


167 


with a sense of regret at her poor manners in the 
young people’s society. She ought to make some ex¬ 
cuse. 

“I hope you’re not angry with me for—well, you 
know at the social of the young people’s society. I 
was really so ashamed.”—She bent her head, but 
braced up again and said with spirit: “But then I’ve 
kept away ever since.” 

Welde was quite moved. The poor girl evidently 
took all the blame on herself. 

“It really made me angry,” he said, and the anger 
still trembled in his voice; “but I could not make a 
scene and reprove there. In your place I would have 
done the same. One often finds least of good man¬ 
ners where one should expect most.” 

Ellen had turned towards him with indignation, 
and her cheeks glowed; but the minister did not notice 
it. He sat and looked straight ahead, absorbed in his 
own indignation. The girl struggled to repress her 
tears. What right had he to speak that way to her? 
Was that nice? She rose quickly and went off with¬ 
out saying goodbye, towards the path to the left. 

Let her go, poor girl, thought the minister. She 
would not let anyone see her tears. He felt a strong 
indignation against Theodora Brooten, who without 
doubt had started this mirth over Miss Mosevig’s hat. 
He would sit a while yet. He did so, and then it 
struck him that it would only be mortifying for El¬ 
len to touch this subject again. He got up and walked 
slowly up the path, till he got on the road leading 
home. When he had walked about a quarter of an 
hour he got to thinking that it was not very chivalrous 
of him to leave the young lady alone by the riverside 
in her distress. So he turned his steps back to the 
same place again. 


168 


Waldemar Ager 


From the road he could look way down to the river 
bank and the old log. 

Ellen was sitting there now, but at her side, with 
his arm about her waist, sat a young man. 

He turned and walked slowly homeward. 

He felt as if everything had suddenly become 
waste and empty both within him and without him. 
His steps were noisy, it seemed to him. He saw people 
here and there; but only as things that were set in 
motion by mechanical power. He also walked along 
—only because he could not stand still—no more so 
than any of the other movable figures that se saw. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Mrs. Andrew Thompson knew very well who Ellen 
was and what kind of a fellow she kept company with. 
It could not be avoided that the conversation now and 
then drifted into the territory of the other congrega¬ 
tion, and there was little to talk about except the 
minister and his family. Mrs. Thompson sniffed 
around this theme about the daughter like a well 
trained hunting dog nosing for a scent. She under¬ 
stood that the minister was interested, but here she 
lost the scent and had to begin anew, but did not get 
any farther. 

Mosevig, poor man, had much anxiety concerning 
this daughter, for she was so—well, rather wild. She 
evidently took after her father, who in his youth had 
not been of a very serious mind, either. And then this 
fellow of hers; he was a man who had no steadiness 
in his make-up. She knew him from the time he was 
driving the bread wagon. Later he became a clerk. 
And one couldn’t know just what the trouble was, but 
he was discharged. He was alone in the store so much, 
and young people need money. The old baker, Mr. 
Simpson, certainly had his reasons. Now the boy was 
running up and down the river with a fishpole and let 
his mother support him and herself at the wash-tub. 
Well, that might pass, if there had not been anything 
worse about him. There was a girl in the choir in 
Mosevig’s church who quit because of him. She 
couldn’t say what it was, but the girl had said that 
she would not sing in the choir while that pig was 
there. She called him pig, that she did, and she was 
such an upright and reliable girl. He also drank and 
went to all the dances in town, so he was not very 
good company for a wild girl like Ellen Mosevig. 


170 


Waldemar Ager 


Pastor Mosevig had been very strict with her, and 
such things may go too far. She had not had very 
much fun in her life. If she was to get clothes, she 
had to earn them herself by sewing—she was really 
smart at that. She had even made Mrs. Thompson’s 
brown cashmere dress. Her father would scarcely 
stand that she was neatly dressed. Once he put a new 
hat she had bought on the chopping block. 

Mr. Welde had to laugh. He remembered the 
“tabernacle,” and Mrs. Thompson lost the scent again. 
He pitied the young girl. He had said to Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son that if the girl loved this fellow, she might per¬ 
haps make a man of him. Mrs. Thompson laughed at 
this. The idea! No, she didn’t think any girl could 
make a man of anyone after they were married if she 
couldn’t make it before they were married. But she 
knew this much, that he was not proper company for 
Ellen Mosevig—and now she had also begun to run to 
dances; well, the father knew nothing about that, of 
course. 

The minister had looked thoughtful, and Mrs. 
Thompson seemed to scent an invisible track. 


He had several times taken his sketch out to de¬ 
stroy it; but it was his first attempt—and in a way 
his own child. The placing of that female figure there, 
helped wonderfully. He would get oil colors and try 
them to see if he could get anything out of it for his 
own pleasure at any rate. It was no poor idea this— 
“burning ships’’ on unsuccessful marine paintings. It 
brought the imagination into play and made the be¬ 
holder overlook the technical faults. It was the same 
with this figure of a woman on his picture. Let the 
river be impossible and the trees impossible and the 
atmosphere impossible—when one painted a figure like 



Christ Before Pilate 


171 


this, one knew what was up and what was down on 
the “painting,” and one might imagine that she sat 
there waiting for her beloved Olson or Nelson and 
that the river and the trees looked that way to her, 
as the artist had made them. 

So he put the sketch away in great good humor. 
Afterwards he would imagine that it was not so bad, 
and whimsical thoughts would rise:—was she sitting 
bn the log yet?—or possibly there were two sitting 
there. Then he had to look at his “work of art” again, 
only to put it away with a shake of his head. 

Still, after all, this might only be evasions, and it 
was Ellen that he hid and could not bear to surrender 
to the flames in Jorgina’s kitchen stove. 

If there were so many that had conspired against 
her and predicted misfortune, he would take care of 
the little he had of her. 

He had met her once since that time, in company 
with a girl friend. They laughed and nudged each 
other with their shoulders when he first saw them. 
When they saw him, they straightened up, became stiff 
and dignified and returned his greeting in a formal and 
distant manner. It really pained him that they became 
so serious for his sake. He was almost sorry that he 
was a minister; otherwise he could have gone after 

them, and treated them to ice-cream and had his share 
of the fun. Why should a minister’s position always 
bring this with it that merry, laughing people became 
solemn and the laughter died when he came? It must 
have been years since he had had a really hearty 
laugh and—oh, yes, there, on the hill-side when the 
farmer swore. He certainly should not have laughed 

then, but that’s the way it goes. One must rather go 
as a messenger of death here on earth and witness 
how the laughter freezes wherever a person wends his 
way. 


172 


Waldemar Ager 


He felt the sting, for he dearly loved to hear people 
laugh. 


This Dr. Spohr was a queer gink. Welde had met 
him the other day.—He was shoving an old baby- 
carriage along the sidewalk and swore like a trooper 
when the minister laughingly asked him if he had 
commenced to sell vegetables. Some potatoes and a 
bag of apples lay in it. The doctor’s fat face was red 
from exertion and anger and he had told the pastor 
to take care of his sheep and leave gentlemen alone. 

Welde had later found out the real facts. The doc¬ 
tor had ordered that a sick child should be taken out 
every day. The mother, who was very poor, had said 
that she had no baby-carriage and could not afford 
to buy one either. Then the doctor had seen this one 
in a second-hand store and had bought it for a couple 
of dollars. As he, pleased with this unexpected bar¬ 
gain, came past the fruit dealer, he remembered that 
the widow had several children, so he bought a peck 
of apples. He grew still more good-humored and 
thought of the mother herself, so he got a couple of 
pecks of potatoes. Just then it dawned on him that 
people laughed at him. Then he himself also realized 
that it looked rather queer for a man wearing a light 
gray suit, a fancy vest, and a Panama hat to be push¬ 
ing an old baby-buggy with potatoes in it along the 
main street, and so he began to swear. He had cursed 
the buggy and the potatoes and the people—including 
the minister—when he met him, and it appeared to 
give him relief. It had not helped any that the min¬ 
ister went along with him. Of course they met Dr. 
Ebbesen, and the Brootens had to come whizzing by 
in their damned honking machine. When he got to 
the house he bethought himself thg.t for a dime he 
could have hired a boy to bring the buggy there. Then 



Christ Before Pilate 


173 


he flew into a fit of anger, and was so enraged that the 
woman’s blessings were entirely lost on him. 

Welde had to smile. This Dr. Spohr was certainly 
a queer guy. The days went by. Welde was, as a 
rule, very busily occupied with his work. He seemed 
to reach everywhere, always willing and punctual. His 
evenings were usually taken up. If he had an evening 
free, he generally visited the doctor to play a game 
of whist or to quarrel with him. It was usually the 
one or the other. They studied how to disagree, it 
seemed. They watched each other closely, and each 
gave the other good advice, which neither of them 
cared to follow. 

But this came to an end also. When he now had 
an evening free, he walked to and fro on the streets, 
and then it often happened that he met a girl with 
an angular figure and a drooping head. She seemed 
so small and insignificant by the side of him. Those 
who did not know them would turn halfway around 
and think: this is an odd couple. 

He had met her in the middle of the summer up 
by the river. She had sat there on the old log huddled 
together, and when he had spoken and she had lifted 
her head, he had seen that she had wept. To be sure, 
she had tried to look brave, but Welde understood 
that she felt bad. It was presumably because this Nel¬ 
son had left her. He had heard that he had gone to 
the coast. 

She was to be pitied, and he felt sorry for her. If 
she had been strikingly beautiful and robust and fash¬ 
ionably dressed, he would have left her alone with 
her grief; but this—her state of collapse touched him. 
Besides, she was a minister’s daughter and he had, 
it seemed to him, an added obligation to be friendly 
towards her. 

They had talked together, and as if half dreaming 


174 


Waldemar Ager 


she had asked Welde if it was true that those who 
drown live their whole lives over again before they 
die. 

To this he could not give any answer; but he under¬ 
stood that it was not safe for her to sit by the river, 
so he offered to accompany her back to town. 

Since then he had met her several times. She must 
be kept away from the river. Scamps like this Nelson 
boy ought to be locked up. 

He thought also of Pastor Mosevig. A shudder 
passed thru him at the thought that something might 
happen to his daughter. One reads of such things in 
the newspapers. If he could—yes, he was happy at the 
thought—if he could look after the daughter a little 
—then she would get over this so that she would per¬ 
haps put the river out of her thoughts. 

And he sought the girl. He walked with her thru 
town, wearing his tall hat. It seemed to him that she 
walked more erect. Now and then a ray of the old 
gaiety beamed thru her, and then he was happy. She 
was perhaps over the worst of it. 

But this would not do for any length of time. It 
caused talk. The girl had perhaps heard something. 
At any rate, these walks stopped as if by mutual agree¬ 
ment, and Mr. Welde was glad of it. It seemed that he 
had succeeded in making a small payment on a great 
claim against him. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Pastor Mosevig was full of many heavy thoughts. 
He would have given up his charge long ago; but 
the church he was affiliated with was strong, and the 
missionary board promised increased aid. It was just 
in such a place that one must retain the hold. When 
God’s appointed time came, there might be a change. 
The dead orthodoxy and the Christianity that is merely 
a name had to reach a certain climax before it burst, 
so that people could see its hollowness. 

As a faithful servant of the Lord he had been grieved 
to see the congregation across the river grow so rap¬ 
idly. He had never had any doubts either of his abil¬ 
ity or as to his calling. It was the other minister’s 
fine appearance and the modern church that drew. 
Such an unmarried ladies’ man could of course gather 
the young ladies, and then the young men followed. 
The business men went where they found most people 
and had the best prospects for gaining customers. The 
small ones wanted to be where the big ones were. It 
had always been that way. 

His daughter had been spying on them at the meet¬ 
ings of the young people’s society, and that had con¬ 
firmed his suspicion. It was Welde the girls were 
after. That Brooten’s Theodora was in love with the 
minister—that he could have guessed even without 
having his daughter’s word for it. 

He muttered many things thru his sparse beard. 
God would at last prick this brilliant soap-bubble, 
and people would see who had the Spirit. He felt de¬ 
fiant. He would show that he could hold out and bide 
the Lord’s hour, when the whited sepulchres should 


176 


Waldemar Ager 


be opened and their dead bones and uncleanness should 
be disclosed. 

But now something new had turned up that had 
bent him down as nothing in his whole life had ever 
done. 

He had heard that Pastor Welde had done some¬ 
thing by no means proper. The card-playing at Dr. 
Spohr’s had leaked out—people had it from his own 
lips that they engaged in such indecent indulgence. 
It served as a new proof of corruption that the con¬ 
gregation would allow such things. That he went 
along to silly coffee-parties at the homes of such as 
Ole Narvesen, that all knew had been an inveterate 
drunkard, was not very becoming for a minister either. 
There were certainly not very many gathering about 
the Word of God in that congregation. Now he had 
also heard that he kept company with a girl of rather 
questionable reputation. It had come to him directly 
from one of Brooten’s American business friends, so 
there was no doubt something in it, and he had not 
found it necessary to keep silent about it. He had 
heard this rumor with secret satisfaction, for he knew 
that the Lord would in some way prick a hole in the 
bubble. He had made an effort to get at the truth 
and had found that the girl of a questionable reputa¬ 
tion was, in fact, his own daughter. It was Mrs. 
Thompson herself who had told him. 

The strong and defiant man had wept. Ellen was 
his child of sorrow. She had been thoughtless and 
wild from the time she mas small. He had punished 
her and had not spared the rod, he had prayed for 
her; she gave up quickly and begged to be forgiven, 
but had her own way after all. Then there was this 
Nelson boy that she kept company with. She had 
sneaked away to dances with him. 

Still he loved her; it was Ellen first and Ellen last. 


Christ Before Pilate 


177 


He had been glad when this Nelson boy at last be¬ 
took himself away from town. He understood that she 
mourned—that is the way with young people. It had 
grieved him to see her so changed. Her fresh and 
merry laughter was no longer heard in the home. She 
took care of the younger children, helped her mother 
and went quietly about like an elderly person. He 
often found her sitting near the bottom of the dark 
stairway, with her feet drawn up and her head resting 
in her arms. She had never sat that way before. His 
heart bled for her; if she only would confide in him, 
but she never came to him with anything. He pon¬ 
dered on this, and being used to connecting his col¬ 
league with all his misfortunes, he soon came to the 
conclusion that Welde was the cause of this. She had 
met him and had gotten foolish notions into her head. 
This Nelson boy had understood it, and the engage¬ 
ment was broken. That was Welde’s object; then he 
had flirted a little with her in return. 

Poor, poor Ellen! He would talk to her gently and 
lovingly—she needed a father now, and her father 
would manage it. 

So one day he undertook to speak to her. He asked 
her if she really went out walking with Welde, and 
to this she answered curtly, “Yes.” As he had thought 
beforehand, he should now have put his arms about 
her and called her by tender, pet names and made her 
realize how hopeless this was. Her short and quite 
natural answer made him give up the idea of embrac¬ 
ing her. He was not used to doing anything like this 
either. It destroyed the proper respect, and he held 
strictly to his dignity as the master and head of the 
family. He began to explain to her how hopeless it 
was to put any faith in such flirtation on Welde’s part. 
She must know that he did not think seriously of 
marrying her. She sat still and listened and only said 


178 


Waldemar Ager 


that she knew that so well that no one needed to tell 
her. 

“Why did you go with him then?” 

“Because—because I didn’t know why I shouldn’t 
do it.” 

“So you really intend to keep on running about this 
way, Ellen?” 

“Yes, if he wants to.” 

Mosevig felt the ground give way under him. Should 
she also be taken away from him? 

It was not until he began to reason with her, told 
her how it might also cause Mr. Welde annoyance— 
gossip and all that—that she grew serious and began 
to cry. Mosevig sat quite confused and was about to 
take her in his arms but checked himself this time 
also. 

That evening Ellen sat a long time in the stairs, 
and many thoughts crossed each other in the little 
head. She had not thought about what these walks 
might cost Mr. Welde. She had felt herself drawn to 
him—she had clung to him in a way, after this with 
Nelson had happened, and of the consequences of 
which she dreaded to think. She had only made fun 
of Welde, but when this dreadful thing had happened, 
she had clung to this certainty that if father and mo¬ 
ther and all would cast her off he would not do so. 
He was so big and fine and was so learned and he 
would help and in some inexplicable way see to it that 
everything would be all right again. No one could 
point a finger at her even if she was poorly dressed— 
and not worthy to tie his shoestring, when she walked 
by his side down Grand Avenue and thru the park. 

But he did not know about her real trouble. She 
had not told him, and could not do it either. 

All this doubt had been submerged in the thought 
that he need not know it, that he would—well, she did 


Christ Before Pilate 


179 


not know what he’d do; she only felt so absolutely 
safe when she was with him. 

She had not comprehended that his reputation ever 
could become sullied. It had not entered her mind. 

Now she sat there alone—just as she was. She 
might have known it could not go on that way. 

When she realized that he also was only a human 
being, the straw failed her, or rather—the rock that 
she had clung to. Her little head was buried in her 
arms. She was only a small, miserable human bundle 
in a stairway, that any one might kick away—or break 
its neck. 

No one could help her now. 

But he had painted her on a large piece of card¬ 
board, and this he had in his own home. Perhaps 
there was help yet. No one could touch him. He was 
too big for them. 

And no one should touch him either. She got up 
and tossed her head as she used to do. If it was neces¬ 
sary, then—and the pond rose before her. It did not 
seem so dreadful now. She shook herself bravely like 
a little dog that has been in the water and has come 
out of it, washed nice and clean. 

Pastor Mosevig thought there was a change in his 
daughter and that she was more like herself. He even 
had to communicate this to his wife, tho he usually 
cared little about imparting his thoughts to her, as 
it would tend to diminish the distance between them 
if he spoke more to her than strictly necessary. His 
wife looked up from her work tired and a little sur¬ 
prised, and at first did not know how she was to re¬ 
gard this confidence. At last she said that this was 
really true, and sent her husband a grateful look. She 
had also had her thoughts about Ellen and had prayed 
to God for her; but she had not wanted to say any¬ 
thing to her husband about it. 


180 


Waldemar Ager 


Now he had broached the subject himself. For a 
moment she was about to ask his opinion about the 
suspicion she had; but—perhaps it was not well to 
do so now. She would wait, then God would open 
a door. With a sigh she again took; up her work. 

She had a long time thought of talking seriously 
to Ellen; but she had a feeling that it was not for her 
to talk about anything so serious without her hus¬ 
band’s knowledge. The Lord would surely open a 
door when His hour came. 


CHAPTER XIX 


It was Jorgina who suggested it. She had asked 
why Welde didn’t take fishing tackle along when he 
went to the river. It happened that people caught fine 
bass and wall-eyed pike there. To prepare fish was 
her specialty. Pastor Welde found the advice very 
good, and when he now went up towards the river— 
and it happened quite often—he had a modern, very 
neat casting rod with agate guides and an expensive 
reel. He had such practice now that he could throw 
his bait nearly across the river. He was very proud 
when, after a few failures, he could bring a fine black 
bass weighing three pounds to the kitchen for Jor¬ 
gina. It was the best recreation he had yet thought of. 

There was exercise for the body and rest for the 
mind—and, now and then, great joy in the kitchen. 

Jorgina was happy because the minister was happy. 
Pastor Wangel of the Synod and Pastor Nelson of 
the United Church had both been expert fishermen 
and fond of fish. She was getting him well trained 
now, and more and more the way he ought to be. 

In the study there was a whole pile of sofa pillows. 
Every little while some young lady in the church sent 
the minister one—and sometimes there were several 
that had clubbed together and had presented a great, 
big one. Jorgina tossed these pillows about with a 
vexed mind when she was cleaning. They reminded her 
of silly girls, the one sillier than the other. She had 
suggested that some might be carried up stairs, but 
the minister was very considerate; if any of the donors 
came they should see that he made use of their gifts. 
So now there were pillows everywhere. He could not 
sit down without moving some of them. They stood 


182 


Waldemar Ager 


in rows on sofas and chairs. She took them out and 
beat them to her heart’s content at least once a week, 
but sighed as she carried them in again and placed 
them where they showed to the least advantage. They 
spoiled things both for her and for the minister, so she 
looked almost triumphantly at the pillows when the 
minister left with the fishing rod. 


The trees by the river bank had already begun to 
take on a touch of autumn and to dress themselves in 
variegated colors. It was just the right kind of a day 
for fishing. It had rained a little in the morning, and 
he had been out early. He had had good practice 
now in throwing the line and could easily escape the 
straying logs that did not follow the current along 
the opposite shore. From a small point that jutted 
into the river, he had an excellent base for operations. 
In the middle of the river lay a sand bank, and it was 
close to this that he had his best success. It was not 
easy to reel in the bait along the side of it, but prac¬ 
tice leads to perfection. An ugly old root also lay there, 
and he had to do his best to escape it. 

He was in excellent humor. He was free and could 
do as he pleased. Here he, like any other youth in 
town, could hum the tune to the popular ballad about 
Redwing, the beautiful Indian maiden, who wept her 
heart away: 

There once lived an Indian maid, 

A shy little prairie maid — 

It was just fit to hum when one straightened out a 
back-slash on the line. It went more slowly when he 
came to the sad refrain: 

Now the moon shines tonight on pretty Redwing, 
The breeze is sighing, the nightbird’s crying, 



Christ Before Pilate 


183 


For far ’neath his star her brave is sleeping — 

While Redwing's weeping - 

He took his position—“her heart away;” and with 
a whistling sound the big, glittering water jack sailed 
away describing a semi-circle and landed on the other 
side of the root. 

“Now, you’ll see,” he thought. He would try to be 
very careful; there were two other baits at seventy- 
five cents a piece, and a spoonhook in that pesky root 
already. If he could only get the line past so as not 
to get stuck. He raised his rod to let the line drift 
a little. The sun got in his eyes so he could not see 
very well. Then he began to reel in—well, it was just 
as he had expected. It had caught. He tried to pull 
very carefully; but it was no use. The new heavy 
line, spun of silk fibre, was almost unbreakable. He 
struggled a long while, but that bait was anchored 
firmly. Worn out and covered with perspiration, he 
stopped and turned his face away from the scene. 

Just then he saw something white moving among 
the trees farther up along the river. He stepped upon 
a little hillock to see better. Now he saw that it was 
a lady. She was taking her hat off. It was up by that 
old log. Did she intend to bathe? That would be a 
fine situation—. There,—good God—didn’t she jump 
right into the river! It was she. He quickly threw 
his rod into the brush while his eye searchingly spied 
for something to put out and catch with. He knew the 
river was deep and he could not swim. There—right 
in the sandstone bluff stood a dry tree with a long 
trunk, split in two. As quick as thought, he caught 
at the thinnest part and hung on, but it did not break 
off. Then he caught around the trunk and set his foot 
against the rocks and bent against them until for a 
moment everything turned black before his eyes. A 
large piece of rock fell out, and he fell with the tree 


184 


Waldemar Ager 


on top of him. He was quickly on his feet again, and 
with almost superhuman strength he half pulled and 
half carried the tree some steps and threw it out. He 
went along with it and, standing in the water up to his 
waist he pushed it into the river. He had heard a half 
smothered cry from her. Now he knew the current 
would carry the tree along as swiftly as it would carry 
her. It would be of no use. “O Lord! Help!”—But 
the tree lay there and did not drift away. Now he saw 
something white among the branches. ‘‘Almighty God! 
Help!” He took some steps out and pushed himself 
forward and got hold of the tree trunk and lay across 
it and worked his way farther on. He knew now that 
he was at the deepest point but felt no fear on his own 
account. In a moment he caught an arm and lifted. 
The tree trunk sank under, but he had a firm hold. He 
knew that he was under the water and still held on. 
Now he understood that he must die, but he did not 
let go. Then all at once he felt the bottom with his 
feet and stood up. He was in water up to his arms 
but was close to the shore. 

The fishline—for it was that which had held the 
tree—had given way under the double weight and 
the tree had swung ashore with them. It seemed like 
a miracle, but Welde did not have time to think of 
that now. He carried the half unconscious body away 
from the shore, loosened her clothes and was going 
to work over her as he had been taught to do with 
people who were near drowning. 

She came to, however, without that. Her lips moved, 
“Let me go!” she hissed. “Let me go!” and she tried 
to get up; but fell in a heap and cried and coughed 
and remained lying with her hands before her face. 

The minister felt a great joy within his breast. It 
was the first time that he had saved a human life. But 
the next moment he remembered how near death he 


Christ Before Pilate 


185 


had been himself. A still greater joy filled him. The 
Lord helps! A stronger power than his own had 
helped here. It was a miracle indeed. 

He wanted to say this to the girl; he wanted to say 
that they ought to thank God—no, he would comfort 
her or say something to her: “Miss Mosevig,” he said, 
but his voice sounded as if choked by tears, he thought. 
He wanted to speak, but his throat was filled as when 
someone is going to cry. He checked his tears, he 
swallowed hard as he, the big, strong man stood over 
the little bundle of a woman who lay there hiccough¬ 
ing, all huddled together. With difficulty he could say 
a few words: 

“Don’t—don’t cry,” he said. 

And then he left her and sank on his knees behind 
a big stone. He wanted to thank God, but he felt that 
his whole body shook and he could not find words. 
He felt as if he was about to cry, but could not do that 
either. After a little he began to breathe more easily. 
The Lord had certainly held His hand over them 
both. 

He was more composed when he rose. The girl lay 
quietly on the grass, but he could see that her bosom 
was working violently. It was best to let her have 
her fight out. He began to think about himself. He 
pulled his shoes and stockings off and wrung the water 
out of them. Fortunately he had been in his shirt 
sleeves, so his coat was dry. He had knocked off his 
hat when he broke the tree down, so that also was 
safe. One had to take an inventory, as it were, after 
such a catastrophe. He began to get his thoughts in 
order now. 

He saw that Ellen had begun to arrange her cloth¬ 
ing. She loosened her hair and tried to smooth it out. 
Thank God, the worst was over with now. It is a 


186 


Waldemar Acer 


pretty good sign when they commence to fuss with 
their hair, he reflected. 

One thought passed thru his mind: that her father 
must be spared from knowing this. 

“Well, well—we’ve got into a mess, haven’t we?” 
He said half jokingly, “What do you think your father 
will say?” 

She gave him no answer. 

“Perhaps it’s best that we stay here a while, until 
we dry a little, before we go back,” he tried again. 

Still no answer. 

So he went and sat down beside her. 

He took plenty of time before he spoke again. 

“Now, tell me, Miss Mosevig, how could you think 
of doing anything so dreadful as this?” He paused a 
little and continued: “When one is in great trouble, 
one can always get help. There are two to whom you 
can go—and it seems as if you listened to the one you 
ought not to have listened to—he gives poor help— 
when he leads us into the river when we are in trou¬ 
ble. Was there no one who could advise you?” he 
added with warmth. 

Ellen’s fingers let go of her hair and she sat moan¬ 
ing all in a heap. 

“No, no,” said the minister. “Dear me, don’t cry 
so!” “It’s all right now.” He spoke to her as to a 
child who is disconsolate and whose tears he must 
try to stop. There was a long pause, only broken now 
and then by the girl’s quiet moaning. 

“I presume I am a hero now! You have made a 
hero of me. Do I look it?” he said with an assumed 
air of self-importance as he sat and gazed straight 
ahead. That he spoke English to her was unusual, 
and the sobbing ceased. He felt that she looked at 
him thru her hands, which she still held before her 
face. 


Christ Before Pilate 


187 


“Well, we’ll watch it when we get home. I’m going 
to stay here—I don’t dare to go home. What do you 
think Jorgina will say? I don’t dare to go home at 
all;” he sat as if absorbed in his own contemplations. 

Ellen looked at him. He looked like a big, mischiev¬ 
ous boy—a brother, playmate, or something like that. 
He still sat and looked straight ahead. 

What had happened? Something had left her as if 
by magic. A feeling of shame remained: How she did 
look. She began to arrange her hair again and thought 
with satisfaction that she had put her hat and long 
coat on the log so they were dry. 

“How goes it with mylady? That’s good—you’re 
all right now. No, no, I don’t need any explanation; 
but”— 

She did not let him finish. “I’m so ashamed, Mr. 
Welde, that I can’t begin to tell you how ashamed I 
am. Since Jack left,—then this came over me. I’m 
not this way always. I usually think that my condi¬ 
tion is no worse than that of a hundred thousand 
other girls—and I’ve been quite brave too.” 

“Has someone ill-treated you, since you could think 
of something so dread—something so desperate, I 
mean?” Welde said this with an effort. 

“No, it was because someone wanted to be good to 
me,” she said quietly, and then she suddenly burst 
into a violent fit of weeping. “I don’t know what it 
was,” she sobbed. 

Pastor Welde went over to her and wanted to put 
his hand on her shoulder and talk to her. She seemed 
to guess it. 

“Don’t you touch me,” she cried and cast a wild 
look towards the river. Then she sank down again, 
and Welde let her weep away. 

Her father, Pastor Mosevig, must not learn about 
this. He must not be told anything about it. It was 


188 


Waldemar Ager 


too bad for the poor man—. If this also should be 
known, then—. Welde sat still and looked out over 
the water. The sun was warm and the clothes steamed 
from the heat. 

“Oh, well, I don’t care,” he heard behind him. 

“What’s up now?” he asked in the most careless 
tone he could assume. 

“Nothing, I’m all right now.” 

He turned, and there she stood, disheveled but toler¬ 
ably respectable. 

“There, now you’re brave,” he said. 

“Yes, I’ve tried to be—yes, I’ve been quite brave.” 

“You surely have. But you must never do anything 
like that again. You must pray God to keep you from 
such thoughts,—I don’t understand how you, who are 
so brave and sensible, could think of such a thing.” 

“Guess I was crazy—but you don’t know what us 
girls have to put up with at times. Father, he said— 
well, it doesn’t matter what he said; but I’m not what 
he thinks I am. He doesn’t know—there’s no one that 
knows what we girls may do when it comes to the 
point. The men think they can do both this and that 
—and when they have trampled on—someone, then 
all will trample—even one’s own father. I want to 
say I can’t stand everything either. I’m not that way. 
I can’t do that—and now since Jack left, then—but 
I’m a woman anyway—I’m certainly a woman any¬ 
way. They can’t do with me as they please.” 

A gleam of pride and defiance shone in her dark 
eyes. 

Pastor Welde did not answer. He did not know 
what to say, but he was glad she seemed to have re¬ 
covered her balance. 

“It is perhaps best that we get away from here,” 
he said and pulled his stockings on which he had hung 
up in the sun to dry. She had left her hat and coat 


Christ Before Pilate 


189 


on the log, and when she got them on she looked quite 
presentable. When Welde was ready with his toilet 
they found they could go home without attracting at¬ 
tention. 

It was fortunate that none had seen what had hap¬ 
pened here by the river. 

On the way home they agreed that she should go 
home with him first. He thought Jorgina would be 
discreet and not say anything about the matter. 


CHAPTER XX 


Jorgina was busying herself in the kitchen, but it 
was as if a cog had slipped somewhere. She couldn’t 
find what she wanted to use, and when she found it 
she wondered what in the world she wanted to use it 
for. Time passed, it was near evening, and she was 
not thru; but she did not really know what was left 
undone either. 

With trembling hands she put the coffee pot on the 
stove. She was going to take a match to light the gas, 
and pulled the box down from the shelf. When she 
bent to pick it up she noticed that her knees shook so 
that she had to sit down and rest. Something strange 
had happened—something dreadful. Her old brains 
had failed her entirely. Her memory could not register 
anything like it either at Pastor Nelson’s of the United 
Church or Pastor Wangel’s of the Synod. Pastor 
Welde had asked her not to say anything about it, 
and she knew what a servant’s duties were. At present 
it was all that she did know. 

She knew her duties. This thought gave her courage 
to recall what had happened. Before dinner the pastor 
comes home with a lady who is dripping wet. And he 
is dripping wet. Both were dripping wet. The one was 
more wet than the other. And when the pastor had 
asked her not to say anything about it,—because he 
did not want the girl’s father, who was Pastor Mose- 
vig, to know anything about it. Why shouldn’t he 
know it? Then she had put the girl in a bedroom and 
had dried and ironed her clothes. She had been over 
by the door and had peeped in, and then the girl lay 
on her face in the bed, praying God to forgive her 
great sin. What kind of a sin was it? Both had been 


Christ Before Pilate 


191 


dripping wet, and the girl had sobbed and cried. The 
pastor had paced up and down the floor of his study, 
and when she came to tell that dinner was ready he 
was staring at that Pilate picture which he did only 
when something had gone wrong. Both had been drip¬ 
ping wet. At the table he had been cheerful and gay 
and had joked about her blue wrapper that the girl 
had put on. One could learn nothing from him. The 
girl had left by the back way—that is—if she was a 
girl. No one could fool Jorgina. If that was a girl, she 
ought to have been a married woman. No one could 
fool her—and both had been dripping wet. She did 
not know that Mosevig had a married daughter, so 
this must be Ellen. She had heard about her. 

But she knew what a servant’s duties were, so she 
sat still and listened. From the study heavy steps 
were heard—back and forth, back and forth. Perhaps 
the pastor would like a cup of coffee. Instantly she 
was on her feet, lit the gas and set the pot on. Then 
she gathered up the matches and began to work. Now 
she knew what she was to do. 

In the study, Welde was musing. He had become 
interested in the girl. She was so entirely alone with 
her grief. She must have been filled with despair. It 
seemed to him that his work in saving her was but 
half completed by getting her out of the water. He 
sank into a day-dream. What had just happened— 
was it not an omen, a sign? She certainly thought a 
great deal of this fellow that she had been going with, 
but still she might learn to love someone else. For¬ 
tunately, he knew that there were many happy mar¬ 
riages where they did not get those they loved the 
most. And wasn’t it also the same way with himself? 
She had certainly not loved that fellow of hers more 
than he had loved Maggie—and loved her yet. They 
were in the same situation in regard to that, so they 


192 


Waldemar Ager 


might comfort each other as much as they could. It 
rose in him with warmth, that it was just they who 
could do that. His thoughts hovered about this. He 
had noticed a peculiar feeling towards her. He remem* 
bered that he thought most warmly about Maggie 
when he was far away from her. When he was near 
to her, she became ordinary flesh and blood—a human 
like all others, while he otherwise insisted on making 
something superhuman of her. The case of Ellen was 
exactly opposite. Away from her he could not bring 
himself to think much about her, but when he was 
near her, he felt an almost irrepressible desire to em¬ 
brace her, to press her closely to himself as if in that 
way he could protect both her and himself. Why was 
it so? 

And then he felt sorry for her, but that thought he 
quickly dismissed. He might with equally good rea¬ 
son be sorry for himself. But then there was that 
weeping of hers. He wondered if she had gone home. 
He hoped she had not gone to the river again. He 
ought to have said some encouraging words to her be¬ 
fore she left. She had gone without saying good-bye 
—well, there was perhaps someone in the study when 
she left. He was a fine one at saving others, he was— 
why, he came near drowning himself—but fools are 
fortunate. Now—afterwards—he could easily think of 
a couple of ways in which he might have saved her 
without risking his own life. It seemed so easy now 
when he was' here in his study. 

But he was glad anyway. How dreadful it would 
have been for Mosevig if his daughter had died that 
way. He did not venture to think of it. It was too 
awful. 

He felt almost relieved when Jorgina knocked on 
the door and asked if the pastor did not wish a cup 
of coffee. He needed some one to talk to. 


Christ Before Pilate 


193 


“Say, Jorgina,” he ventured, as he sat at the table, 
“I presume you have read in the papers that if a bach¬ 
elor saves a girl from drowning he has to marry her?” 

She pricked up her ears. No—she had never read nor 
heard anything like that. 

The pastor was in good humor. “You mustn’t tell 
it,” he said, “but I really pulled this Ellen Mosevig 
out of the river today.” 

“Had she fallen in?” asked Jorgina. 

“In some way she had gotten in,” the pastor answered 
evasively. “I heard her cry for help and threw some¬ 
thing out after her, but when I was to pull her out, I 
got in myself. That’s the way it goes when one wants 
to be helpful.” 

Jorgina drew a sigh of relief. So that was how it 
happened that they both were dripping wet. 

“It’s too bad for her,” the minister ventured to say. 

“Too bad for her?” Jorgina started in as scandalized 
a tone as she, a servant, felt she might use. “Too bad 
for her? Yes, it is too bad for her if my eyes are not 
mistaken—but one can of course be mistaken—well, 
she certainly has got herself in trouble so it’s too bad 
for her; but it is not suitable for a girl, even if she is 
elderly, to talk of this to young men, and least of all 
for one who is a servant, for I know what a servant's 
duties are; but it is too bad for her—yes, it surely is.” 

Jorgina nodded her old gray head. Her voice was a 
little scornful. She had proved that a girl could go 
thru life without losing her character, and she was not 
lenient toward those who had gone astray. 

But she was almost frightened when she looked at 
the minister. He sat there silent and had turned very 
pale. After a while he rose dejectedly from the table, 
said good night and went into his study. When Jor¬ 
gina cleared away, she saw that the cup was only half 
emptied. She shook her gray head sadly, and the 


194 


Waldemar Acer 


trembling began again. No,—she had not met with 
anything like this either at Pastor Nelson’s of the 
United Church or at Pastor Wangel’s of the Synod. 

When she had cleared away the dishes, she seated 
herself by the door with her knitting and heard the 
pastor’s footsteps in his office; back and forth—to 
and fro. 

The clock struck nine, it struck ten, and she heard 
it strike eleven. She heard the steps; back and forth 
—to and fro. Her hands with her knitting fell into her 
lap. Then her glasses dropped. She woke from her 
nap, and the steps still sounded. Good Lord, doesn’t 
he go to bed ? She cast longing eyes on the coffee pot. 
She would heat it a little. She took off her shoes, so 
that he should not hear her. 

Oh, dear!—The percolator plate fell on the floor. 
Her hands trembled so today—and there the minister 
stood in the door in the green dressing-gown with the 
red cords. Now he seemed really pleased when she 
turned around, in her fright. 

Did she have anything left in the coffee pot? To be 
sure, she had. It was strange to see how happy and 
light-hearted he had become. 

“I believe you and I will have to get married,” he 
said, as he took a lump of sugar. 

“Oh, I presume the pastor means that as a joke,” 
laughed Jorgina somewhat constrained. 

“Yes,” he admitted dryly, “for you wouldn’t have 
me anyway, such a big, ugly fellow as I am.” 

Then Jorgina had to laugh. But she could not get 
herself to say—even in a joke, that she might take him 
if he meant anything by it. She knew a servant’s place. 

“Well, then I’ll have to ask someone else,” he said 
gaily and bade her good night, and she saw his broad 
back fill the doorway as he slowly went into his room. 

And now Jorgina could also rest, and it became dark 
and still in the parsonage. 


CHAPTER XXI 


The gossip raged like a fever in the congregation. 
At the services the church was filled as it used to be, 
and the ladies’ aid had never been better attended; but 
the people seemed to be absent-minded, tho watching 
for further developments. 

It proved to be very unfortunate that the minister 
had been so companionable to each and all. His court¬ 
esy was natural to him and had therefore brought him 
contempt. Quite instinctively they connected his affa¬ 
bility with cowardice. There was something wrong 
with him, or else he wouldn’t be that way. There was 
something he was afraid of, or he’d be more stuck-up. 
To begin with, some husband or wife felt flattered that 
he could remember the names of their children and 
that he would sit in their kitchen and tell them about 
his family and other private affairs, but when they 
found that he treated others the same way their vanity 
was wounded. If one had something to tell, showing 
how intimate he was with the minister, then there was 
always someone who knew still more. So they tried to 
out-vie each other. Welde was like an open book in 
which all could turn the leaves and read to their heart’s 
content, and such a book may easily become soiled. 

When he began to show himself on the street with 
Ellen Mosevig, they commenced to whisper. There 
must be some reason for his walking with her. She was 
well known. When it was rumored that she had gone 
wrong and that her father would not let her stay at 
home, then any one ought to get his eyes opened. 

The gossip was raging everywhere. The wonderful 
thing had happened that Mrs. Andrew Thompson and 
Mrs. Berven had become friends. From the bank some 


196 


Waldemar Ager 


news always leaked out thru Mr. Berven to Mrs. 
Berven, and Mrs. Thompson heard different things 
at the Mosevig ladies’ aid, which she now diligently 
attended. The two women needed each other now, and 
came to the same conclusion as several others, namely, 
that there was something wrong. They were of course 
very careful. That it was thoughtless on the part of 
the minister to show himself on the street with a girl 
who had run to dances in spite of being a minister’s 
daughter, and who had a poor reputation—that they 
had all agreed on. And now, when this other thing 
came up—well, something was surely wrong. 

Mrs. Ole Narvesen was all alone now. She took the 
minister’s part by attacking her neighbors, Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son and Mrs. Berven. What Mrs. Berven was, that 
her washing showed—and her house—and the neg¬ 
lected children. Regarding Mrs. Thompson, she did 
not hesitate to repeat that old lutefisk story, and then 
the war was on. All had agreed that Mrs. Narvesen 
had become very proud and important since her hus¬ 
band had joined the temperance society. But she’d 
better take care. The old saloon was standing at the 
corner. Just wait! Mrs. Narvesen stood firm as a rock 
amidst all this gossip. The suspicion against the min¬ 
ister did not reach its aim when it knocked at her 
kitchen door. She had nice clothes to hang out now, 
and she hung them where they could be seen. The 
house was repaired and newly painted. Narvesen was 
constantly making repairs around his place. No one 
should come and say anything disparaging about the 
minister to her. 

The men also became interested in this gossip and 
might be seen, standing in groups, discussing, in the 
factories, in the sawmills, and in the lumber yards. 
Some laughed, others shook their heads or nodded 
their approval. 


Christ Before Pilate 


197 


Pastor Welde himself did not notice any of this and 
heard nothing. He mingled with his parishioners as 
before and attended to his duties. There were, how¬ 
ever, those who saw a change in him—or thought they 
did, and that, of course, amounts to the same thing. 

But there was one question: What did Mosevig 
think about this? He had made such a strange prayer 
last Sunday; he had asked for grace to forgive. After¬ 
wards there were several that had noticed how, even 
in the Lord’s Prayer, he had put special stress on the 
words, “As we forgive those who trespass against us.” 
Many had thought of Pastor Welde then. Mosevig 
had also said something about the Lord letting His 
hour come when He will bring to light the hidden 
things of darkness. This much he had also said to Mrs. 
Thompson, that if it hadn’t been for Pastor Welde, 
many things would have been different, but “Ven¬ 
geance is mine, saith the Lord.” 

And many felt sorry for Mosevig. He was in real¬ 
ity a better speaker than Pastor Welde. He never 
used any notes, but he spoke what the Spirit moved 
him to say, and it was the Spirit, of course, which 
counted. 

The talk flowed from the humble homes to the bet¬ 
ter ones, and from them to the finest ones, and so it 
reached the Brootens at last. 

Brooten was a man in the first place and also a 
business man. He knew that the flesh is weak; he had 
experience in regard to that and could add two and 
two together. He had not yet forgotten how Pastor 
Welde had put his will thru with regard to Larson's 
appointment as janitor. He became doubtful and 
suspicious, and at the supper table he let both his wife 
and his daughters know that now things were really 
going too far. He would put a stop to this before there 


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was a scandal. Both his interest in the congregation 
and his business interests demanded it. He would force 
Pastor Welde to resign. 

But he met with opposition from unexpected quar¬ 
ters. His daughter Theodora would not believe all 
this gossip and took the pastor’s part. As long as 
Welde was praised and applauded by all, she had kept 
herself back and had perhaps rather tried to hunt for 
his faults; but now when they began to talk ill about 
him, she warmly defended him. It might be that Welde 
felt sorry for Ellen. She remembered the incident 
about the hat at the young people’s society. 

Dr. Spohr ought to know about it. He was their 
family physician and a constant guest in their home. 
She could talk confidentially with him. 

She told the doctor about the gossip. She knew he 
was a friend of Welde and wanted to hear what he 
thought about it. 

When the doctor heard how serious this might be¬ 
come for the minister, he broke loose: “He is an idiot, 
—beg your pardon—a perfect idiot. What do you sup¬ 
pose? He’ll take her into his own house if her father 
sends her away. At least he says so. It is his Christian 
duty, he says—Christian duty to take care of a giddy 
girl who ought to be horse whipped.” 

“But do you think he will do it?” asked Theodora. 

“Yes, to be sure he will; there’s no doubt about 
that; but of course it will never do, so I’ve about made 
up my mind to take her myself if it becomes necessary. 
It is not so bad for me as it is for him. He suffers 
from a mania of benevolence—one can do nothing with 
him.” 

“But why not send her away, to some relatives or 
something? that is quite usual under such circum¬ 
stances.” 

The doctor shook his head energetically. “You 


Christ Before Pilate 


199 


don’t know Mr. Welde,” he said. “I can assure you 
that that would be as far from him as to give a hungry 
tramp who knocks at his door here in town an order 
on Finstad’s restaurant in Chicago.” 

“But he has no kind of obligation toward this daugh¬ 
ter of Mosevig.” 

“Go and tell him that, Miss Brooten,” said the doc¬ 
tor almost triumphantly. “No, he is crazy, you see. He 
is in love with the case.” 

“In love with Miss Mosevig, you mean?” 

“No, not exactly with her, but rather with her case. 
It is a theological infatuation—her depravity and mis¬ 
ery and helplessness is what he is enamoured of—head 
over heels.” 

“Well, I must say, I don’t admire his taste,” said 
Theodora. “I thought ministers would hate those— 
cases as you call them.” 

“Yes,” said the doctor with some hesitation, “you’re 
right in that. It has often both surprised and provoked 
me how those who are themselves morally clean can 
be so confounded lenient with those who are immoral. 
They seem to lack the premises or requirements neces¬ 
sary to understand immorality, and are filled with 
pity instead of anger. The so-called ‘pure in heart,’ 
morally speaking, often present shocking examples of 
—yes, lack of zeal against immorality. Thus women 
forgive more easily than men because they are of a 
cleaner nature. There are some of us, ugly beasts, who 
are always fighting the old Adam, you know, and 
where he time and time again gets the best of us, we 
are apt to be more bitter towards him than those who 
haven’t had so much trouble with him.” 

Theodora got ready to go. “Do you believe Welde 
will agree to your taking care of Miss Mosevig in his 
place?” 

“I must of course lie to him and talk about my poor 


200 


Waldemar Ager 


wife, who needs another lazy thing around her so as 
to give the lazy creature we already have something 
to do—and then he’ll take pity on us and let us have 
her, I think.” 

Theodora laughed. “It’s nice of you to keep an eye 
on him,” she said as she rose to go. ‘T should wish,” 
she said, a little mischievously, “that you men would 
be just as helpful towards poor girls that have not 
gone astray.” 

“There, by Jove, you said a word of wisdom, Miss 
Brooten,” the doctor exclaimed laughing and bowed 
her gallantly out of the office. 

Theodora walked triumphantly homeward. Her tall, 
stately figure swept the sidewalk with a determined 
air. Pastor Welde had been brave. The fat doctor said 
he was crazy, but they always said that about anyone 
who did anything unusual. Her heart beat loudly, 
and this made her cheeks glow. Now she also wanted 
to be in the game. Papa must be managed carefully. 

Very diplomatically she put the case before her 
father. She was willing to admit that the pastor had 
acted foolishly; but he felt sorry for the girl, and he 
would shame Mosevig by showing him that he would 
help her. If people didn’t always want to believe the 
worst, they would understand what a fine trait this 
was in Welde. He had considered himself secure from 
all such suspicions, and here it was that he had reck¬ 
oned without his host. The fact was, that Mosevig 
had wanted to shut the door on his own daughter, 
what no real Christian would do, even to a stranger. 
Then Welde had looked after her a little, so that Mose¬ 
vig should take the hint and keep her at home. Now 
Mosevig does not dare but make a virtue of a neces¬ 
sity. What a shame it would have been for the Nor¬ 
wegians in town if she had been compelled to go to 
the associated charities or make away with herself. 


Christ Before Pilate 


201 


She sat as she usually did when talking business 
with her father—with her elbows resting on the table, 
while the two white forefingers formed a point towards 
him. He enjoyed seeing her that way. The intelligent 
eyes were his own. All said she had his eyes. 

He emptied his meerschaum pipe and refilled it 
thoughtfully. Suddenly he looked up at her, his eyes 
twinkling good humoredly. He could add two and 
two together. “He is no fool, that Welde,” he said 
at last. “We are the ones that have been stupid. Well, 
well,—we’ll have to see. Now you must sing, ‘Can old 
Norway be forgotten’ to me.” 

“That old jingle?” 

“Yep.” 

“And drag a little on every syllable?” 

“Yes.” 

“And a distinctive nasal twang?” 

“Yes,—get it natural.” 

Theodora sat down to the piano and sang. It was 
her father’s favorite song—the song above all songs. 
She had sung it so often that she was quite tired of 
it. But if she didn’t sing it, she ran the risk of having 
him sing it himself, and that was worse. 

So she sang to him and did her best. Brooten sat 
very devout and enjoyed both the words and the mu¬ 
sic, and the large, round head kept time without know¬ 
ing it, by nodding quite perceptibly. 

When she was thru he rose, stretched himself with 
evident satisfaction and kicked out with his legs, first 
with one and then with the other. Then he walked 
quickly out thru the sitting room. 

Theodora knew he went to take a drink. 


A couple of days later, she and her mother went 
to Pastor Welde to get him along for an automobile 
ride. Theodora directed the trip, and they went mostly 



202 


Waldemar Ager 


thru the streets where the people of their own church 
lived; so now they could see. 

And they did see—and agreed that it was here as 
in the old country: The big-bugs stuck together. 


CHAPTER XXII 


Pastor Welde walked up and down the floor ponder¬ 
ing on something. Now and then he placed himself 
in front of the window and looked out. The autumn 
wind chased a cloud of dust along the street. In its 
wake followed dry leaves and other rubbish that it 
had swept together and now was playing with. It had 
been shaking the leaves all summer thru, and now 
it had at last gotten hold of them and had fun with 
them. Here and there new leaves came that the wind 
had gathered up in the gutter. They came rushing 
headlong, like small wheels, to unite themselves with 
the rest of the rubbish that the wind was playing 
with. 

They were light-footed now, when they were torn 
from trunk and branches and the sun had taken 
back what he had given. The trees stood there naked 
and angry and let the wind whistle its song of triumph 
among their branches. The gray old trunks had seen a 
lot of leaves fall. It was only the branches that beat 
each other. “Ye are the branches.” The branches 
thought they were robbed of everything and did not 
know better than to hit each other, but the trunk re¬ 
mained firm. It had its roots deep down in the ground, 
and the wind could not reach to the roots. The leaves 
were only the outer covering, a beauty that comes and 
goes again, a dress that may be laid aside. And the 
fewer the leaves the more power of resistance. The 
branches would become pliable. It did not hurt to 
develop this quality in them. 

He found a cigar. Smoking was not a bad invention 
for a bachelor. There was a bit of warmth, a small 


204 


Waldemar Acer 


glow that one could keep alive in that way—and that 
was company. 

It was a hard blow when he heard of Ellen’s condi¬ 
tion. He remembered that first night when he had 
walked to and fro and could not collect his thoughts. 
His first feeling had been one of disgust—the next 
indignation. He could at pleasure let his disgust or 
indignation be uppermost, according to whether he 
thought of her or of her parents. 

But his duty had always been clear to him. He re¬ 
membered that he had gotten hold of her, as he lay 
and splashed in the water, and had held fast. It was 
natural for him not to let go when he had hold of 
something that would sink. He doubled his hand and 
looked at his firm fist with evident pride. His hand 
was not good at hitting but to take hold of something 
and not let go—that had been his specialty since child¬ 
hood. 

As he gradually had made himself familiar with the 
thought of her condition, the feeling of disgust and 
indignation gave way to the positive feeling that he 
must help her—that he, perhaps, was the only one 
who could help her. 

The door-bell rang. It was Ole Narvesen’s wife. 
The pastor conducted her into his study, asked her to 
sit down and inquired about the children. Yes, they 
were all very well, thank you. 

Mrs. Narvesen sat a while, but was not at ease. She 
shook her handkerchief, folded and unfolded it on her 
lap. Her face was still more grave than usual. Her 
busy fingers worked nervously with the handkerchief. 
At last she blurted out her errand. Did the minister 
know how the people in the congregation were talking 
about him? She had felt that he ought to know it, 
and before she quite realized it she was telling about 
what Mrs. Thompson had told Mrs. Larson and what 


Christ Before Pilate 


205 


Mrs. Larson had told her that Mrs. Berven had said 
to Mrs. Storlie. After she had made a good start her 
story came faster. Tears came, and she thought it was 
just dreadful. She had always said— 

But Pastor Welde had risen to his feet. He looked 
more serious than she had ever seen him before. He 
placed himself right in front of her and pointed toward 
the door. Then it was as tho something went to pieces 
in the good woman. The minister opened the door. 
“Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Berven belong to the con¬ 
gregation as well as yourself, and I don’t want to hear 
what they have said or not said.” 

“But they slander you, they say all kinds of bad 
things about you.—” 

“That isn’t any worse than when you say bad things 
about them.” 

“Yes, but I thought—” 

“No, you did not think at all, Mrs. Narvesen, or 
you would not have come here with this. Mrs. Thomp¬ 
son and Mrs. Berven had good reasons for their suspi¬ 
cion. You must understand that yourself, that there 
is ground for suspicion, so it is not queer at all that 
people talk.” 

Mrs. Narvesen walked down the steps quite be¬ 
wildered and out on the street. She would not have 
believed this. She thought she was doing the pastor 
a service, and then he had taken the part of those that 
were slandering him. It must be true, then, what they 
were telling. But she would not let it go any further. 
The tears came to her eyes again, but she dried them 
bravely. When she came home, she scrubbed the 
kitchen and stairs. Her tears mingled with the suds. 
The minister would not have treated any of the high- 
toned women in the church like that. She wouldn’t 
open her mouth to take his part again. 

Pastor Welde paced angrily up and down the floor 


206 


Waldemar Ager 


of his study. What had he done? He had tried to 
help a girl who was on the down grade. Now all 
tried to keep his hand back. Did they not see that a 
human being might be lost? Were they all so afraid 
of sullying their hands? Why should they worry 
about his hands? I{ they themselves would not help, 
they ought to let him do so; not only for those in his 
congregation, but for all that were suffering and had 
gone astray. 

He saw the girl before him then as she lay there 
by the river, huddled together. She was still only a 
child, so to speak. How easy, how dreadfully easy it 
was to sit in judgment instead of helping her. 

His eye glanced at the picture. They had once 
brought to Jesus a woman who was caught in the very 
act. She had also stood before an angry mob of 
Pharisees and scribes like the accused one in the pic¬ 
ture. Hers had been a clear case. She should be 
stoned, but before the execution they took her before 
Jesus to try Plim. Did He feel disgusted? Was He 
indignant? That was nobody’s business but His own. 
He wrote something—the only thing that we know He 
ever wrote—and He wrote it in the sand—that was the 
way He kept records of such cases. He did not want 
it to be preserved. He had said that the one that was 
without sin among them should cast the first stone. 
How clean and pure was this person, Conrad Walther 
Welde? He was not clean enough to throw the fatal 
stone. Christ, who was without sin, could have done 
it, but did not want to. 

Pastor Welde remained standing in deep thought 
and drew lines on the carpet with his foot. It was 
divided into squares. While he thought of Ellen, 
something in his brains was working independently 
with those squares: Four small, one larger, four 
larger, one big, four big ones formed a very large one, 


Christ Before Pilate 


207 


four very large ones the whole. Every square had 
four equal sides. It was the correctness of it which 
gave the right proportion and eventually conquered 
the whole. 

What had come between him and Ellen Mosevig? 
Her false step—her sin—her great sin. It had turned 
his pity to disgust and indignation. 

He might help her anyway—but overlook and for¬ 
give? No! Had she sinned against him then? No! 
She had sinned against her parents—and God. Still 
he had to judge. But grant that God had for¬ 
given her—ithat her parents had forgiven her—should 
he still sit in judgment? He to whom she need render 
no account? 

He turned on his heel. She had fallen deeply, that 
was certain. 

She must have been in despair and wept bitterly. 

He had to think of the father also. What a blow 
it must have been to the poor man! He could see him 
before him, more threadbare and cowed than ever. 
This grown-up daughter had perhaps been his pride. 

Now people would have something to talk about. 
The other ministers would meet on the street and tell 
each other the news. The poor man would feel the 
ill-natured glances piercing his back when he sneaked 
thru the streets. 

There was often a light in the minister’s study till 
far out into the night. Mrs. Narvesen had been right. 
There certainly had been a lot of gossip. 

His parishioners had become so strangely distant. 
They seemed so far away from him. He preached as 
usual, but a chill came from the upturned faces. A 
peculiar feeling of lonesomeness came over him. He 
was alone—almost entirely alone. Even the stained 


208 


Waldemar Ager 


glass windows seemed strange. He stepped as care¬ 
fully into the chancel as if he had been in a strange 
place. At home he was also like a stranger. Jorgina 
seemed ten years older, and she spoke only about the 
most necessary things regarding the housekeeping. 
There was even a strange sound in her shoes as she 
walked about in the sitting room. 

The nights were the worst; often he couldn’t sleep. 
He had never been troubled with sleeplessness before. 
When he looked in the mirror, his face seemed strange. 
It was sallow, and his cheek bones were more promi¬ 
nent than before. 

He loved happy faces. He had often warmed him¬ 
self in the happy smiles he caught on the street or in 
the meetings. Now he went about all alone and 
forsaken. 

It pained him to see that many of the ministerial 
acts that really belonged to him now went to the other 
minister. Not that he begrudged him, but it was a 
sign that the congregation was slipping away from 
him. 

At this time he often thought of Ellen. Someone 
who would love him and with whom he could share 
his troubles, someone that he had a sort of claim on. 
someone he could do a lot for and who would be hap¬ 
py over it. 

He began to hunger for love. He bought candy 
and put in his pockets and gave to children on the 
street. They looked at him and laughed, ran away 
and often forgot to thank him. Then he called them 
back and gave them more. They came slowly, but 
their eyes were greedy. When he saw this, the stopped 
giving candy to the children. 

He took his walks and looked about to see if there 
was anyone he could help. He offered to assist an 


Christ Before Pilate 


209 


expressman in lifting a trunk, and he wanted to carry 
a little girl across a muddy street. The expressman 
thanked him politely and said it wasn't necessary, and 
the little girl screamed. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


It was quite remarkable how much they now could 
find to say about Pastor Welde. He was not the man 
they thought he was. To be sure, the church attend¬ 
ance had been good, but the church treasury was in a 
poor condition. They easily agreed that he was too 
fine—a swell dude—and that they were the ones that 
paid for the fine clothes, so he might have been a little 
more saving. There were also so many poor people. 
But when the conversation took another turn, they 
were equally agreed that he did not have the dignity 
of the old minister. To sit and drink coffee at Ole 
Narvesen’s—all knew what Narvesen had been—and 
might become again. Besides, to go anywhere, among 
all kinds of people, and be friends with all,—even 
with half grown young people—that surely was not 
proper or becoming for a minister. 

They had a feeling that he was not what he pre¬ 
tended to be—and so the suspicion fell into good soil 
when this incident with Ellen Mosevig became known. 

The ultra-religious had for a long time had a house¬ 
hold of their own, as it were, in the church. They 
held small gatherings by themselves, and into these 
otherwise devotional meetings the talk about the pas¬ 
tor’s conduct crept in. They agreed that the worst of 
it was that no one knew anything positive. 

It was therefore felt as a great relief when Mrs. 
Storlie at last came with her account. She had kept 
it for more than a year and a half, and she had never 
intended to say anything about this, which only she 
and God in heaven had seen. From the other side of 
the street she had seen the minister standing with his 
arm around that woman from Trondhjem, who moved 


Christ Before Pilate 


211 


away from town shortly after her husband had ob¬ 
tained a divorce from her. People knew what she 
was. She had been with' the Methodists and Baptists 
and the Free-free, and when she at last began to speak 
in unknown tongues, her husband had asked for a 
divorce. The brethren in the circle remembered her 
as a rather handsome and very self-seeking woman, 
and this harmonized. She was of the right kind, she 
was. And Mrs. Storlie did not lie, that they knew 
very well. She did not run around telling lies. Here 
she, poor woman, had carried this hidden in her own 
breast for over a year and a half without breathing it 
to a living soul. Such faithfulness had to be rewarded 
at last. 

The more worldly ones in the church had never 
been pleased with the minister. There may be such 
a thing as too much preaching against drinking and 
dancing; some moderation ought to be used. There 
should be no politics in the church and the minister 
was no.t afraid of handling the cards when there was 
a chance. But he did not preach against card playing. 
Instead he denounced betting and all kinds of gam¬ 
bling. He got up games for the young people, and 
some of these were really dances of some kind. No, 
the trouble was that he wanted to be the boss and to 
run the whole congregation. To take a glass of beer 
or whiskey was wrong; but the drunkards—he actual¬ 
ly seemed to sympathize with them. Hadn’t he said 
that in one way it was better for the children if the 
father was a drunkard than if he was a moderate 
drinker? Those were fine doctrines to impress on the 
children—against their own parents. 

But then there was the solid old stock of permanent 
members who always discharged their duties; who 
had built the church and who! had faithfully stood by 
the congregation. They had had their legs knocked 


212 


Waldemar Ager 


from under them, as it were. He preached “good 
works,” this Welde. It wasn’t enough that they felt 
contrition and repentance over their sins. He had 
even said that the publicans who did not get farther 
than to smite their breast to show how humble they 
were compared to the Pharisees, were themselves 
worse Pharisees than those they meant to put to 
shame. It was better not to repent than to repent by 
rote. This might be taken as making light of repent¬ 
ance, which was the necessary requirement for grace. 
The old minister had certainly been better. In his 
time there was real repentance in the congregation. 
Now one should do this and that, and let this and 
that alone, till there was scarcely anything to feel re¬ 
pentant about. 

They grieved over this and other things, which they 
felt that they in some way had been cheated out of 
during Welde’s short ministry. 

They ought to have an extra congregational meet¬ 
ing, but this was frustrated by Brooten and the big- 
bugs in the church. The big ones always stuck to¬ 
gether. Besides, there, was nothing to call a meeting 
about either. The trouble was not in the doctrine, 
but rather in his way of preaching. Matters would 
have to rest until that story about the Mosevig girl 
was cleared up. A slight hope dawned, as it were, 
that there might be something in it, tho they added 
devoutly: God forbid it. 

Pastor Welde had fought a hard battle. He had, 
so to speak, “lain on his face.” They had come before 
him, father, mother, friends—all had passed in review 
before his soul. He seemed to hear his mother’s 
voice: “Now you must take care, Conrad,” and all 
the others: “Now you must take care: Remember, 


Christ Before Pilate 


213 


Conrad,—she is a fallen woman. What do you think 
your brother clergymen will say ? What will the con¬ 
gregation say?” Maggie Cornell came before him. 
Would he give up his calling for a fallen woman, 
when he would not give it up for her? His reason 
said it was wrong; his sense of justice said it was 
wrong; common sense said it was foolish. Still some¬ 
thing lay gnawing inside of him and whispering in¬ 
cessantly: “Do it! She will be so happy. Do it, 
and her old father will straighten his back and obtain 
reparation. Do it, and she will be saved.” 

Yes, saved—suppose she should go to the river again. 
Would he not then consider himself a murderer? 
She was so helpless, so totally helpless. Suppose the 
parents should shut the door, no friends, no means— 
and she only eighteen years old! Something must be 
done for her. Should he again throw himself into 
the deep water? 

But how, in what way? 

He buried his face in the sofa pillows. He called 
for help like one who gropes in the dark, along the 
edge of a deep chasm. 

He rose at last and got ready to go out. In the 
dim light, he saw the two white figures on the picture 
shining thru the dusk. 

He felt that he went along the sidewalk with firm, 
elastic steps. He had all at once become light¬ 
hearted. He had imagined that it would be a heavy 
walk, and instead he felt as if wafted along. 

He reached the street where Mosevig’s church lay, 
and there was the parsonage by the side of it. His 
heart beat a little faster as he rang the doorbell. He 
felt composed and light of heart, however, and his 
breast was filled with joy. He had come on an im¬ 
portant mission, like one who is about to pay a debt. 


214 


Waldemar Ager 


The minister’s wife opened the door and stood a 
moment confused and looked at the big man, who 
filled the doorway and who stood politely with hat in 
hand. Was the pastor at home? With one hand she 
pushed the most inquisitive of the youngsters back 
and with the other pointed to a door with a scarcely 
audible: “He’s in there, please.” 

Welde stepped into the room that served Mosevig 
as a study. He sat filing a saw blade and rose in sur¬ 
prise and pointed to a chair. 

“Sit down, please. This is an unexpected visit. 
You must excuse, I’m busy with some work, so it’s a 
little untidy in here.”—“Keep the door shut,” he said 
harshly to his wife, who tried to pull the children 
away from the half open door. Then he rose, brushed 
his* trousers with his hand and looked at Welde with 
an uneasy and embarrassed air: Why had he come? 

Pastor Welde was also embarrassed. He felt now 
as if he had nothing to do here. By what right had he 
intruded? The pity he had felt for Mr. Mosevig had 
left him all at once. “Go home and mind your own 
business,” a voice said within him. He checked his 
aversion and came to the point at once. 

He wanted to ask if the pastor had made any deci¬ 
sion in regard to his daughter. He had promised— 
or more correctly—he had decided to do what he could 
for her; but first he wanted to know if there was any¬ 
thing in what he had heard, that they intended to send 
her away. 

Pastor Mosevig had again taken his saw blade, 
which he examined with the practiced eye of a car¬ 
penter. He did not like the subject. What did it 
matter to Welde what he intended to do? But he 
yielded to his respect for the man as he was seated 
before him. 

He mumbled a little and said, he must first know 


Christ Before Pilate 


215 


the will of God in this case, “Not my will, but thine,” 
that was always his first consideration. 

Pastor Welde was silent. 

Mosevig sighed deeply. An expression of helpless¬ 
ness came over him. As in a panorama he saw his 
daughter’s shame spread out before him, in his own 
house—by the one he least of all could hear it from. 
His lips began to tremble. He fought his tears. 
Welde saw this, and something in his own breast 
was touched. He hid his agitation with an effort. 

“I can easily realize,” he said, “what a dreadful blow 
this would be under all circumstances and especially 
for a minister. If there is anything I can help you 
with -.” 

“I have loved her so—I’ve loved this girl of mine so 

much-” Mosevig finally burst out. “She has been 

our child of sorrows—I’ve never understood her very 
well. She has gone her own way.” 

“Well, — what’s done is done. One must try to 
save what can be saved,” Mr. Welde ventured. 

“We must leave it in the hands of God.” 

“She ought not to be sent out among strangers, for 
she has a very fickle temper, and she must stay with 
some one who loves her and will be good to her.” 

There was an almost malignant gleam in Mosevig’s 
eyes. “Is this what you came to tell me? Do you 
think I shall give up my work—for what will people 
say? Should I bolster her up, besides?” 

“But she is your child.” 

Was that what he had come to tell him? Didn’t 
he have enough before? What right did this man 
have to mix up in his family affairs ? 

He leaned over towards Welde and asked in a voice 
that shook with agitation: 

“You don’t think I’ve had enough, then, since you 
are coming to throw this in my teeth?” 




216 


Waldemar Acer 


Pastor Welde understood at once that he had been 
very tactless towards Mosevig. He bent his head 
resignedly and said in a low voice: “I beg your par¬ 
don. It is this way. I have become very much in¬ 
terested in her—am attracted to her in a way, and I 
am afraid she might fare ill if she is sent away/’ 

“You want to interfere then when the Lord punishes 
the sin?” 

Well, yes,—he meant something like that. 

“And if I don’t want to keep her at home—out of 
regard for my calling, for instance, then you’ll per¬ 
haps take care of her?” 

Yes, he had thought so. 

“As your daughter, then?” came in repressed indigna¬ 
tion. 

“I had thought most likely as my wife,” Pastor 
Welde said with forced composure. When he had 
said this he breathed more easily and added: “Of 
course it depends on her—and on you also.” 

“You don’t know, then—?” 

“I think I know as ( much about it as you do.” 

Pastor Mosevig sat and stared fixedly at the young 
man. Was he crazy? That was! why he had walked 
about with her. A “ha-ha!” escaped him. So that’s 
the way it was. His freckled fingers fumbled with 
his beard. “You mean to give up your calling, then?” 

“If it is necessary, it might be done.” 

He said this with the utmost composure. 

Pastor Mosevig sat staring right ahead. Now he 
had the upper hand; Welde certainly did not under¬ 
stand that such a union would ruin them both. He 
must be crack-brained, this Welde. 

It was best to get thru with it at once. 

“Ellen is already engaged—and in a way can be said 
to be married to another, so it’s best to wait and see 
what comes of that,” he said. 


Christ Before Pilate 


217 


It was as if someone had struck Welde in the face 
with a wet cloth. He ought to have known this. 
He was a fool—stark mad as Dr. Spohr used to say. 
He sat there silent and embarrassed. 

Mosevig was now on top and must make the most 
of his victory. 

“Perhaps you see it yourself too, now, that it was 
quite unbecoming of you to keep company with a girl 
who was promised to someone else/’ 

“That may be right,” Welde said quietly; “but,” he 
added, “you will keep her at home then!” 

“Oh, as regards that, it must, in God’s name, take 
its course.” 

Welde rose to take his leave. “Thank you,” he 
said. “I hope you’ll be good to her—or it might hap¬ 
pen that I’d come and take her anyway.” He said 
this in as gay a tone as he could muster. 

When he left he again had to pass thru the flock of 
children and past the wife who opened the door for 
him. He smiled at the children and asked one of 
them what his name was. The boy gave his mother 
a frightened look, and she looked toward the door 
of the study. Mosevig did not like to have any one 
make much of children. “You seem to be a smart 
boy,” said Welde. “Can you run errands?” The boy 
nodded behind his mother’s skirt. “Take this and 
buy some oranges for the little ones and a great big 
one for yourself because you’re a bright little fellow.” 
The boy took the half dollar, and the mother smiled. 
“Thank him nicely.” The boy put out a fat little 
hand. “Goodbye!—Goodbye!” 

It felt good to get out on the street, out of the close 
and stuffy air. Welde scarcely knew whether to 
laugh or cry; but he had this arranged anyway. He 
had not gone far before he heard the patter of small 
feet behind him. It was the boy who came back with 


218 


Waldemar Acer 


the half dollar. He returned it without saying a word 
and pattered off again; but Welde had seen that the 
little child-face was distorted by repressed tears. 

He walked slowly along with the coin in his hand— 
he knew not what to do with it. 

It was good to get home. 

Jorgina was in better humor tonight and asked if 
he did not want some coffee. 

There was nothing that he would rather have. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Pastor Welde always saw a case more clearly when 
he had more time—and when the case already was 
decided some way or other. Now, when he was by 
himself, he saw that he had acted very unwisely. Why 
should he concern himself about this Mosevig? He 
was a nasty customer in reality, cringing towards 
others and brutal towards his family. Perhaps Dr. 
Spohr had been right when he said that the more 
“pious” a husband is, the more cowed is his wife. It 
scarcely ever failed, he said. It was a shame that 
such things could be said. It would almost be a 
blessing for Mosevig’s church and the Lutheran 
church in general if such a man could be sent back to 
his carpenter work again. 

“But he is getting old and is said to be in poor 
health,” a voice whispered. 

Oh, yes, it was said that he was in poor health now, 
but there were many carpenters that had to stand it, 
even if they were in poor health. He was not too sickly 
to be brutal, and towards his own family at that. 
“But you know what trials he has had — what has 
made him so bitter ?” the voice whispered again. 

Yes, he had suffered. Welde stopped pacing the 
floor. 

Brrr! The telephone rang. He took the receiver 
down. It was a sick call from one of the parishioners 
out in the country. They did not expect him to live 
thru the night—could the minister come and see him 
at once? Yes, he would come. 

He telephoned to all the livery barns in town, but 
none had any teams that they could send out. This 
had never happened to him before. Then he thought 


220 


Waldemar Ager 


of Brooten’s automobile, and telephoned to them to 
hear if they would let Jim, the boy, take him out. He 
would pay the boy for his trouble. He waited a while, 
and Brooten answered that the boy was out on a lark 
—as he usually was, but that Theodora could go along. 
She could handle the machine all right, but they must 
drive carefully. The minister thanked him for the of¬ 
fer. He thought they’d be able to manage it. 

He took his small handbag and got ready. One 
never had to wait long for the Brootens. Soon the car 
stopped by the sidewalk. 

It was a bit humiliating to have her drive. He seated 
himself by her side. He laughingly suggested that, 
while they were inside the city limits, where it was 
light, he would also take hold of the steering wheel 
and make faces as tho he were steering. They both 
laughed, and then whizzed along. Theodora’s small 
gloved hand held the wheel firmly. There was some¬ 
thing reliable about her. She was born to direct things. 

When they reached the country road they had to go 
more slowly. 

They got there safely, and Theodora was also asked 
to come in. It was a highly respected man in the prime 
of life who was dying. The minister knew him as a 
reserved, self-sacrificing man who had been faithful 
in discharging his duties. Now when he was to die, 
he was sorely troubled, because he had not confessed 
the name of Jesus before his fellow men. Would 
Jesus now confess him before His heavenly Father? 
The Word of God said No, and it caused him anguish. 
One of the neighbors was also present. He had the gift 
of preaching and testifying, and used his gifts very 
frequently. 

When the minister had prayed and read a portion 
of Scripture to the sick man, this subject came up. 
The sick man’s eyes rested anxiously on the minister. 


Christ Before Pilate 


221 


What would he say? Pastor Welde took this more 
calmly than the neighbor who sat by the door, clear¬ 
ing his throat ominously. There were several that Je¬ 
sus had healed and whom he had given the command 
that they should say nothing about it. Why? Well, 
He knew best for what reason; but thus it was. To 
some He had only said: “Follow me!” He only asked 
that they should obey. Had these followers a clear 
perception of Jesus? Did they believe that He was 
the Son of God? Did they understand His mission? 
One would have to answer that they scarcely did. It 
was evident that even the best of the disciples did not 
have any clear perception of the mission of Jesus but 
they followed Him as well as they understood, and 
He did not demand more. He knew their hearts, and 
they should receive more knowledge at the appointed 
time. 

But the testimony—the neighbor moved uneasily on 
his chair. Did the pastor think it unnecessary to con¬ 
fess the name of Jesus before men and tell others that 
they loved Jesus and were willing to take up their 
cross ? 

The minister turned to the neighbor. For some it 
was necessary to bear witness; but the testimony was 
not the most important thing. Smiling half sadly he 
said: “I know one who was very fond of a girl. He 
was so fond of her* that she was ever in his thoughts. 
Even the street she walked and the house she lived 
in were house and street above all other houses and 
streets in the world. He could have kissed the dust 
where her feet had trod; but he did not tell a living 
soul how much he loved her—but carried it within 
himself. It might have been better for him if he could 
have told about it; still the love was there. There 
was no doubt of that. And if the girl had been om- 


222 


Waldemar Ager 


niscient and had known his heart she would have 
known that it beat for her and for no one else/’ 

The neighbor became still more uneasy on his chair 
Would the minister compare anything worldly like 
this with the spiritual? Was this what they learned 
in the theological schools that the common people had 
to give money to? He coughed and groaned, and an 
incredulous “hm” escaped him, but he said nothing. 
The minister continued to talk as if only to himself. 
There were married people that loved each other very 
tenderly, but they did not go around talking about it 
continually. They had plighted their troth once, and 
that was binding. They did not need any new as¬ 
surance. He was hers, and she was his. He sometimes 
had a feeling of distrust towards those who went 
about fanning the air and boasting of their great love 
for God and the Church. They often did the least 
when they should show their love by doing something 
for the cause of God. 

The sick man listened, and a look of peace came over 
the pale face. He had tried to give according to his 
means. Then the minister turned to him with this di¬ 
rect question: “You have* not known of any other di¬ 
rect way of salvation than thru Jesus Christ and Him 
crucified?” To this he could answer No with glad con¬ 
fidence. The minister talked about the home above 
so feelingly that both the sick man’s wife and Theo¬ 
dora were deeply moved and sat listening as if it was 
to them as much as to the sick man he was talking. 
Death is the door to be opened when someone is ready 
to enter. First one, then another. Happy are those 
that are admitted. Then he asked Theodora to sing 
“Gates Ajar.” She had a pleasing, tho not strong 
voice, and she sang. He joined in the chorus, and 
even the neighbor grunted a little. The pastor then 
administered the Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper and 


Christ Before Pilate 


223 


uttered a short but heartfelt prayer. When he bid 
farewell, the dying man held his hand for a long time. 
There was a gleam of thankfulness and security in 
the dim eyes. “We’ll meet again, then, Pastor Welde, 
beyond the river,” he said in his feeble voice. Welde 
turned aside in order to hide his feelings. “By the 
help of God, we shall,” he said. 

The neighbor went out with him. Welde talked a 
little to him. Theodora heard only the last words: 
“You must be kind, and do not make him uneasy by 
saying that he should have testified more. It may 
be so, but you must not disturb him with this now.” 

The neighbor remained standing in deep meditation 
—he stood on the same spot till he began to get cold. 
So it was good deeds that Welde preached! Give plen¬ 
ty to the minister, then you’re all right. He thought 
of the six dollars a year he gave to the upkeep of the 
congregation, two to the inner mission, and five to the 
heathens, besides tickets to the church festivals, and 
fifteen dollars when the church was built. Yes, that 
would surely open the gates, he thought, with a touch 
of bitterness. No, one must testify, that is more safe 
—and—even if one gives all his possessions it will 
not help anyway. But if he did not lose the fifteen 
hundred dollars he had invested in mining stock, then 
he also would give more. If it had gone the way he 
had thought, he would have given a great deal—ten 
per cent of what he had made. Now he would give 
liberally if he only could get back what he had in¬ 
vested. In a martyr-like mood he went into the house. 
He would let people know how this minister had 
mixed the wordly and spiritual things together and 
made a mess of it. Here one certainly had to bear wit¬ 
ness if one had the cause of God at heart—not only as 
a matter of finance. To give is of the flesh and will 
get its reward in the flesh. But that which is born 


224 


Waldemar Ager 


of the Spirit is Spirit. There are too many worldly 
ministers of the Gospel nowadays. 

It annoyed him that he had not said this when 
the minister was present. He would, however, make 
up for it by testifying with regard to this before the 
church members that lived out there in the country. 
It might be that he would have something to tell the 
minister, too, after he had talked with the others. 

In the meantime the automobile rolled along rather 
slowly towards town. 

Theodora was touched. It was the first time she had 
been at such a sick-bed, and she had sung for the sick 
man. All that the minister had said was quite right, 
she thought. She wondered if he meant himself when 
he said that he knew a person who loved someone so 
much. She also knew what it was to love without 
saying anything about it. She had friends who ran 
across the street to tell every time they were “dead 
in love,” but they did not die from it—those who ran 
about and chattered. It was only on the surface. She 
felt a desire to do or say something that might please 
this big man whq now sat so silent by her side. She 
did have something good to tell him. When the con¬ 
versation after a while drifted on to the gossip in the 
congregation, she could inform him that not a small 
part of it could be traced back to Mosevig and his 
people. “But papa has taken hold now, and he will 
put a stop to it.” Welde wanted to know in what way. 
Theodora, tossed her head. She wished to arouse his 
curiosity. He asked again; she did not want to tell 
at once, but he persisted. 

“Then you must promise not to let on at all.” 

“It is so dangerous, then?” 

“No, not exactly; but it is just this much, that we 
can get rid of this preacher who only goes about 
speaking ill of you.” 


Christ Before Pilate 


225 


“Do you believe he does that?” 

“What do you think he does, then? From whom do 
you think this comes that you preach only to make a 
living and teach good deeds and all that—you don’t 
think the common people would think of such things, 
do you?” 

“There is some truth in that, Miss Brooten. I may 
have dwelt too much on this, that people must live as 
Christians.” 

“Oh, pshaw—there are also those who think that 
you are not so particular—that you—.” 

“That I—what?” 

“Well, then, that you have been with the young 
people and gotten up games, that you smoke, that you 
play whist with Dr. Spohr and that you keep company 
with such as the Narvesens and other 'common’ people 
—and—Theodora made a sweeping motion with 
her hand, “and hobnob with the swell people like 
Brootens and others of the same kind. You are both 
too much and too little on good deeds, and you are 
too easy-going and let people do as they please, and 
then you are too set and want to have your own way. 
You praise those that should be admonished and find 
fault with those that should be praised. You are a re¬ 
specter of persons and you are not. You talk above 
our heads so we cannot follow you, and so simply that 
there is nothing to it. Can’t you understand it?” 

She laughed so that her head nearly touched the 
steering wheel. 

The minister had to laugh also; but at the same time 
he felt that there was a serious side to it. 

And he grew indignant. 

He was aware of it. There were some that tried to 
undermine him and' his congregation—sowing discord 
and mistrust. 

“I trust it will be seen that I also have friends in 


226 


Waldemar Ager 


the congregation who will be on guard and defend 
me,” he said at last. 

“That you have,” comforted Theodora. “Ole Nar- 
vesen’s wife, she has fought bravely for you down 
there on Garfield Avenue. I tell you, she holds her 
own. She’s more than a match for them.” 

Pastor Welde was quite confused. Why, it was 
she that he had shown the door! 

He remained sitting there silent. Theodora under¬ 
stood that he was depressed and came to his relief 
at once. “Well, I’ll tell you,” she said, “but you 
mustn’t let papa know that I have said it. He wanted 
it to be a surprise, I think. Papa has a mortgage on 
Mosevig’s church, and he never remembers the in¬ 
terest. Papa has always had trouble with him. He 
has given him notice, and now papa says if he does 
not come tomorrow he will turn the key in the door 
—and that is the end of it.” 

Welde gave a start. “But will he do it?” he asked. 

“He does not like to do it,” said Theodora. “He 
has no earthly use for that church, and he can’t get 
two hundred dollars for it from any one, so he’ll lose 
his money. He thinks it can be moved and fixed up 
for a school house. The idea is to get Mosevig away 
from here. Just think—he has really said that you 
offered to marry his daughter, but he said No—out of 
regard for you and your calling—he was so noble.” 

She laughed in a constrained manner. 

Pastor Welde laughed in the same way. “It would 
not be nice of me to say he was fibbing,” he said eva¬ 
sively. “He ought to be glad and thankful to get a 
son-in-law of any kind now,” he added with a touch 
of gayety. 

There was something in his voice that Theodora 
did not like, and the conversation took another turn. 

They had now reached town and drove up to Broo- 


Christ Before Pilate 


227 


ten’s. Theodora put the car in herself, and the pastor 
said goodnight and thanked her warmly for the fine 
ride and paid her a compliment or two for her skill 
in handling a car. He then walked home afoot. 

There were lights both in the sitting room and in 
the kitchen. Jorgina sat half asleep and waited for 
him. It was tiresome to sit this way and wait, but 
she knew a servant’s duties. Both Wangel of the 
Synod and Nelson of the United had been so glad to 
get a lunch after returning from a sick call at night. 


CHAPTER XXV 


It was way after midnight. Pastor Welde sat in 
an easy chair with his feet on the library table. Tired 
of thinking of other things, he was amused to see his 
feet on the table. His feet in the slippers were his 
uniformed subjects serving as sentinels in the moon¬ 
light. The moon was the lamp, that burned dimly, 
the enemy was Jorgina, who woke if he only moved. 

He was tired, and his eyes smarted, but sleep—that 
was impossible. Was it the coffee, perhaps? 

He had gone to bed, feeling in a way light at heart. 
He had had a fine ride. Theodora was a reliable girl; 
not a bit affected or put on. She was dependable, 
and was careful about what she said. It was* like be¬ 
ing with a sensible aunt, who had a remedy for every¬ 
thing and on whom one' could rely. No foolishness or 
sentimentality about her. 

He was fond of dwelling on this, for there was 
something else that continually forced itself on him, 
and he was afraid of it. It was really this that kept 
him awake tonight. 

It was this, that as soon as he closed his eyes, Mose- 
vig stood before him with his protruding mouth and 
the threadbare coat: how would it be with him when 
Brooten turned the key in the church door?—But it 
served Mosevig right—yes, it certainly served him 
right. 

To think that such a man should stand in the pul¬ 
pit and preach the Word of God, one who wanted to 
shut the door on his own daughter, one who was a 
tyrant in his own home, but meek as a rag in appear¬ 
ance when outside of it, one who thought evil and 
sowed evil seed in the congregation of others, 


Christ Before Pilate 


229 


He ought to be chased away. 

Welde remembered that his father had spoken of a 
colleague of the same kind. He had helped him re¬ 
peatedly and had received annoyances in return. 
“Skunk,” that was what his father had called him. 
The skunk is a nice looking animal, and one might 
want to pet it, he said; but one must take care lest 
he get into trouble. This animal has a peculiar nature. 

Hadn’t he gone about and felt pity for this fellow, 
at least he had wished he could help him, he had 
tried to be good to him—and then this—what would 
you call him?—went and stirred up bad blood in the 
congregation. 

If he only had had tact enough not to say anything 
about this that he, Pastor Welde, had contemplated, 
namely, to take care of Ellen—in her present condi¬ 
tion. 

He felt vexed and troubled about this as he was ly¬ 
ing there, and these thoughts drove sleep away from 
his couch. 

It was bad enough to undermine a fellow-worker’s 
influence; but it was still worse to drive wedges in 
so as to split the church of God. One did not need 
a large wedge either — only put it there and then 
quietly get away without assuming any responsibility. 
There were plenty of those that saw the wedge and 
did not know any better than to drive it in, seeing 
it stood there — and then to make use of his own 
daughter’s disgrace in order to put the wedge there— 
and against one who had exposed himself to a number 
of disagreeable things in order to help him. 

These were the thanks he got. 

Such a man ought to be ousted. 

He had in fact offered and been willing to share this 
burden with Mosevig—the disgrace, one might say. 
The thanks he got was that Mosevig let it be reported 


230 


Waldemar Ager 


that he, Welde, driven by—qualms of conscience pre¬ 
sumably—had offered to marry his daughter—or stood 
so low that he was glad to get her, the way she was. 
Could one imagine anything more despicable? 

It was such thoughts as these that at last drove him 
out of bed. He breathed more easily now when he sat 
ensconced in the easy chair, with a cigar between his 
fingers and his two subjects on guard and under ob¬ 
servation. In reality his! own conduct had been pecu¬ 
liar, in fact very unwise. It was perhaps, after all, 
not so strange that Mosevig figured things out the 
way he did. Possibly he had lain awake nights for 
the same reason. He had at any rate only followed 
the lines of least resistance. It ought to be possible 
to get this matter' cleared. Ellen had received letters 
from her fellow. She had been frank enough to ask 
him to read these letters. He did not want to do this. 
He had let matters rest with what she had told him, 
that Jack had gone away, when he understood how 
things were, and that she did not want to have any 
more to do with him. 

Besides this he experienced an almost incompre¬ 
hensible but not at all disagreeable notion that she 
now in a way belonged to him, that he had a hold on 
her; and this had gradually become firmer as her own 
people seemed to let her go. If she had no one else 
to rely on, should he forsake her? Her penitence was 
sincere. But the river was still there, and despair was 
lying in ambush behind her. Something told him that 
it was his hand that now kept her head above the 
water. He had prayed for strength so as to be able 
to help, and felt that he had received this strength— 
even if there was some sacrifice connected with it. 

He had accepted one of Jack’s letters, not because 
he wanted to read it, but he did not want to slight 
the confidence she placed in him and in that way hurt 


Christ Before Pilate 


231 


her feelings. Now he felt like reading it. No one 
could tell—perhaps it might contain some means of 
safety for him if the talk should be carried too far. 
There were those who dared to go inexcusably far 
out, and he had perhaps done that, then one must 
clutch at something. It passed thru his mind that he 
had once before nearly perished for her sake. It was 
not only in the river that such things happened. 

He found the letter and opened it. 

No, he had been no shining school light, this Jack. 
The letter was poorly written and ill spelled. 

He let his eye glance hastily over the letter and was 
soon interested in its contents. She must have told 
him what had happened at the river, for he wrote that 
he would never forget it and that Pastor Welde had 
saved three that time—“all three of us,” he wrote. 
This was enough. Welde continued reading. He had 
gone to the Coast to make money so they could get 
married, and he had thought of sending money, he 
wrote. He had saved over twenty dollars already; 
but the way she wrote he did not know what she 
meant. She must know he did not mean to desert 
her; but it took time to get work. He had worked 
in the woods and it was difficult to get letters mailed, 
but now he was in town. Pastor Welde did not read 
further. He understood by hastily glancing down 
the sheet that it was filled with assurances of his love 
and all that, if she would only forgive him. 

He sat a long time with the letter in his hand. A 
deep sadness came over him. He had no claim on 
her after all. He had saved her for someone else— 
to give her back to the one who had pushed her into 
the river. He saw her as in a mist, far away. 

He understood it now. She had given him these 
letters so that he could see how matters stood. She 
loved this fellow; but from a feeling of gratitude she 


232 


Waldemar Ager 


would give him up if he—Welde—wished it. That 
was perhaps the reason why she had given him this 
letter. 

He had no living thing—nothing whatsoever, that 
belonged to him. The study seemed to shrink about 
him and become small and shabby. There stood the 
table, here a chair, and there another. There were the 
books in the shelves, and the sofa, and the letter press 
—silent witnesses of his being alone. When they did 
not take their leave, it was because they could not. 
But he could go away all he wanted to, and none of 
these things would turn around to look at him, or fol¬ 
low him to the door. 

He was so utterly alone. 

If he only had had a dog, a big St. Bernard, for in¬ 
stance, with devoted, faithful eyes; but Jorgina did 
not like dogs. Well, she would have to stand it, for 
now he was going to get a dog before long. 

No, it was impossible to sleep. His thoughts flut¬ 
tered about like a heavy and tired bird, in a circle 
without a resting place. He went over the whole 
ground again and peeped into every corner. Brooten 
had a perfect right to turn the key in the door of 
Mosevig’s church. He had the law on his side. He 
did it to save the congregation and to save him also. 
A minister couldn’t go about saying: “Have you 
heard,” etc. A minister was more helpless against 
evil rumors than anyone else. The minister who was 
married was fortunate. His wife usually got hold of 
things. He wondered if the married ministers knew 
how many attacks on their character and reputation 
their wives had refuted and nipped in the bud. It 
was just punishment if such a man as Mosevig was 
turned out of doors. He certainly should be scourged 
and ousted. 


Christ Before Pilate 


233 


He noticed an insect that flew around the lamp, 
and threw itself time and again against the chimney 
so that it gave a snap. It could not keep away; it 
might burn itself, but had to keep on, must keep on. 
He remembered having read about the dead birds 
around the lighthouses. No one burned themselves 
on the sun—the Lord’s big light, the largest of all. 
It was only the small lights which the people lit, that 
were so dangerous for insects and birds and such like. 

He would write to this Jack and see if he could do 
something for him. It was too bad for the boy, poor 
fellow. He meant well after all. 

The thought stimulated him. He would try a cigar 
again. Yes, he could write and offer him a small loan, 
so he could get married before Christmas—and he 
would speak to Ellen for him. That would be best. 
It was the only thing to do under the circumstances— 
now when the boy was willing. But oh, how dreary 
it was. His eyes passed hungrily over the furniture 
again. There it all stood—and belonged to him in a 
way; but in another way it was unfamiliar. His 
glance fell on the pictures on the wall and stopped 
at the largest one. 

In the dim light the two white figures became very 
prominent. They were Christ and Pilate. He had al¬ 
ways thought that Pilate was too massive and Christ 
too small in proportion. He would have painted them 
just the opposite and had Christ large—triumphantly 
large even in those surroundings and under those con¬ 
ditions. The artist had made him quite insignificant. 

But was not that what they all did? Seen with 
human eyes, Pilate was a very powerful master, in the 
community and in the hearts of men. 

“Well, well!” something said within him. “How is it 
with you, Welde? Isn’t he powerful in you too? Don’t 
you also dabble with arithmetic settling up your an- 


234 


Waldemar Ager 


swers and declaring that so and so is right, while 
something is wrong about it? Don’t you also want to 
be the friend of Caesar, defend your position? Pilate 
also had a position. He was the Roman governor in 
a larger community than yours, and he had someone 
above him. It is not easy to know what he thought. 
Here the people were stirred up against Jesus, there 
was a riot that Jesus consciously or unconsciously had 
given occasion to. Pilate was there to keep order. 
As a Roman he laid stress on order. Perhaps he 
thought that Jesus ought to be scourged and sent 
away. 

Then they would have peace, thank God. 

Welde wondered if Jesus thought that some of those 
who persecuted Him ought to be scourged. He had 
also scourged some, but not on His own account. It 
was His Father’s house that it concerned, not His own 
person. When it concerned Himself, then His own 
were humbled and told to put the sword in the sheath. 

Here were the same powers, the same court trial. 
The one had the law on his side, and the other had 
something that was above the ordinary ideas of law 
and justice. The one was backed by the records of the 
court, and the other only wrote in the sand. The one 
weighed and said: so much for this and so much for 
that. The other did not weigh—He only paid out, 
and gave away, gave away with generous hands. 

Well may you speculate, Mr. Pilate. You have to 
deal with one who represents standards of value that 
are different from those you have been used to. You 
have divided the year into months, the months into 
weeks, the weeks into days, the days into hours. Still 
you have known long years, long hours, etc. Your 
calendar will not do, my man. You have divided your 
mile into rods, and your rods into yards, and the yards 
into feet, and the feet into inches. You know the dif- 


Christ Before Pilate 


235 


ference between inches and miles and can compute 
distances correctly; but you feel nearer to the em¬ 
peror in Rome than you do to the man who stands ten 
feet away from you. Your yard stick is a failure, Mr. 
Pilate. You have scales indicating weights from a ton 
to a thousandth part of a pound; but you know well 
that the heaviest burden anyone can carry will not 
move the index of an apothecary’s weight. You can 
not measure the nearest or weigh the heaviest. And 
there, right before you, is One who could say that a 
farthing was the largest contribution in the treasury 
of the temple on a day when many rich people had 
put in large sums. How could you judge correctly 
here? Was it strange that many jeered and mocked 
Him who stands before you? 

Still they would have known, if they had bethought 
themselves, that their measures could not be depended 
on, that there were other standards of value above 
theirs—which are not of this world. 

Welde brushed the ashes from his cigar. 

Ah, yes, these powers — the same, over and over 
again. 

His thoughts again commenced to circle about 
Mosevig and Brooten, how the latter would put a mark 
on the church-door of the former and put an end to 
his plotting. It was right in two ways. First, right 
according to law, and then because Mosevig had de¬ 
served it. There certainly was a limit to what one 
should stand, and that limit had been passed. 

“The measure of Pilate,” “the weight of Pilate,” 
said a still, small voice within him. Time and again 
he had tried to deaden it by recalling Mosevig’s des¬ 
picable undermining, done in the dark, like that of a 
mole. 

“He is an elderly man,” whispered the voice, “a 
large family,” continued the voice; “sickly,” said the 


236 


Waldemar Ager 


voice; “Think of all the children/’ it whispered; “Per¬ 
haps he doesn’t know any better,’’ it said. “It will 
crush him entirely,” said the voice louder, “and you, 
what will you gain ?” asked the voice still more plain¬ 
ly, “Aren’t you contemptible, too? — somewhat re¬ 
vengeful, for instance?” The voice grew. “When he 
goes away with all his belongings, and you see the 
load moving away with the bureaus, washstands, and 
cradle, the bedding rolled up in bundles, the old writ¬ 
ing desk, tools and rags and old chairs—then Rev¬ 
erend Conrad Walther Welde, you must stand at the 
corner right across from the church and point your 
finger at him and blow your trumpet and call out: 
‘Now you got it—for your lying tongue! Go to— 
with your children and your disgraced daughter. By- 
by!’ ” 

Welde had forgotten to smoke. He noticed that his 
hand shook when he felt for a match. He rose and 
stood for a while stiff and motionless, looking at the 
small gleam from the cigar. Then he went to his 
writing desk, seated himself and wrote a few lines on 
a sheet of paper after he had torn the heading off. He 
signed it “a friend” and put a twenty-dollar bill in it, 
took an envelope and wrote Mosevig’s name and ad¬ 
dress outside. This work took only a few moments. 
If it was brought to the postoffice by seven o’clock, 
Mosevig would get it by the first mail delivery. 

Scarcely was this done when he took his ordinary 
writing paper and began to write a letter of some 
length. The pen moved rapidly along the paper, and 
line after line was formed with his own tall letters. 
It was to Jack. He asked him to come back. He 
would talk to Ellen and help him with a small loan if 
necessary. He would help him get a job if possible. 
If he preferred to stay out there, he would pay Ellen’s 
fare. There was no end to all that he wanted to do. 


Christ Before Pilate 


237 


Then he folded the letter and wrote the address and— 
there lay both letters ready. His head sank down on 
his folded hands on the table. He prayed that the 
purpose of these letters might be realized. Then he 
rose, yawned, and stretched his mighty limbs. 

The first peep of day was visible outside. He 
pushed the curtain aside and saw the sky aglow with 
red and gold. A beautiful sight. It ought to be 
painted. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


Something remarkable had happened to Mosevig. 
In the morning he had received a letter written in 
English, with twenty dollars enclosed. The writer 
called his attention to the fact that if he wanted to 
save the church property he must hurry off this very 
day and pay the interest. 

It struck him as a blow. It was God, the Lord, that 
had sent him this. He had forgotten the day the in¬ 
terest was due, as usual. The previous time, the 
trustees had to sign at the last moment. He had 
promised that he should not forget it another time 
—and now God had reminded him of it. 

He figured that with this and what was in the 
church treasury he would get enough. He felt both 
proud and thankful. The eye of God watched over 
him and his small congregation. He almost felt like 
telling his wife the glad news; but it had not been his 
lot to get a wife with whom he could talk about im¬ 
portant spiritual things and business matters. How 
often had he not both in joy and sorrow longed for 
a wife who was spiritually inclined and who would 
have been a comfort to him in matters intellectual; 
but it was evidently God's will that he should carry 
his cross alone. 

He hurried to get away. He had to see a couple 
of the trustees first. From whom could the letter have 
come? It was from God—in answer to his prayer. 
He remembered now, or at least thought that he sure¬ 
ly must have breathed a prayer before the letter from 
the bank came saying that the interest must be paid 
the tenth; but he was not positive about it. 

He sped along and found first the one and then the 


Christ Before Pilate 


239 


other trustee. He wanted to show them the letter. 
They didn’t care much if he lay awake the whole night 
and, like Jacob, wrestled in prayer to save the church. 
They were busy with their merchandise. Well, man 
is a reed—nothing to rely on. To rely on the trustees 
was to make flesh his arm. They both listened peni¬ 
tently while he told them about his anguish of soul 
and the remarkable deliverance. Then he crossed over 
to the bank. On the way, the thought occurred to him 
that the twenty dollars was really his private property. 
The letter had said nothing about what the money 
was to be used for; still he would make the sacrifice. 
Welde and Brooten would have been glad to close the 
church door on him. They had the money and the 
power and the multitude on their side; but with him 
stood the Lord Sabaoth. 

Mr. Brooten the banker, was plainly surprised 
when he took the money with a business-like air. He 
examined the twenty-dollar bill quite carefully and 
noted the number. Pastor Mosevig grew hot. Per¬ 
haps it was a counterfeit. No, Brooten smoothed it 
out and put it in the pile with other bills. It might 
be worth while to tell him, so that he understood 
whom he had to deal with. “I got the bill today as 
a present,” he said. Brooten should be made to realize 
that Mosevig also had friends. 

“As a present?” Brooten asked in surprise. 

“As a present, yes! When I opened my mail I 
found this. A friend writes that he knows that I 
have to pay out a large sum today, so he sends this 
as a small token of regard.” 

“And called your attention to the fact that you must 
pay today—absolutely today?” 

“Yes,” Mr. Mosevig’s heart beat loudly. Perhaps 
it was Brooten himself that had sent him the money. 
“It was a great and very welcome help,” he said, 


240 


Waldemar Acer 


“whoever the good giver may be/’ A shrewd look 
came into his eyes. “A minister may often have 
friends that he knows nothing about,” he said—“peo¬ 
ple who for some reason or other—business reasons, 
for instance—can't afford to belong to a small and in¬ 
significant congregation; but whose heart beats warm¬ 
ly for those that are small in the eyes of the world.” 

“Yes, to be sure, yes, that may be so,” Brooten 
turned and went into his private office—to hide his 
emotion, Mosevig imagined, quite happy at the 
thought, while one of the clerks wrote down the 
amount. 

But in his office Brooten remained sitting and 
drumming on his desk with his fingers. It passed his 
understanding. He knew the bill. It had been paid 
to Pastor Welde the day previous as a part of his sal¬ 
ary. Was he playing into Mosevig’s hands or had 
he become crazy? No, it must be someone else who 
had gotten hold of it and sent it. 


Pastor Welde was surprised to see Mr. Brooten 
come that afternoon. His visits had not been frequent 
of late. Brooten took a seat and moved his chair 
close up to the minister’s and sat for some time look¬ 
ing at him. He leaned forward and rested his right 
hand on his knee while he fingered his watch chain 
with his left hand. It was his usual position when 
he wanted to settle some important business. He had 
a fixed look; he drew himself together as it were, 
ready to pierce his victim with his eyes. At such 
times his brain worked accurately. Everything was 
cleared aside. He saw straight and never made a 
mistake. 

“I should like to know how Pastor Mosevig got 
hold of that twenty-dollar bill that you got from me 
yesterday. Has he stolen it or gotten it in some other 



Christ Before Pilate 


241 


way? To whom did you give it? I am really curious 
and would like to know who has been so generous 
or so damned idiotic as to give him notice that I 
wanted to foreclose the mortgage.’’ His fingers fum¬ 
bled with the gold chain excitedly, but his voice was 
cool and under control. 

Pastor Welde was really frightened. He had great 
respect for Brooten as the much older man and also 
on account of his influence and wealth and his in¬ 
terest in the church. He remained sitting a while, 
like a school boy who is caught in the act of thought¬ 
lessly doing something naughty. 

“It was I who called his attention to it and sent him 
the money. Theodora happened to mention it—and I 
thought there could be nothing wrong in doing what I 
did. One minister ought to do that much for another.” 

“But don’t you understand that this Mosevig is 
ruining both you and the congregation with his 
tongue ?” 

“Oh, I suppose we are not so easily ruined/’ the 
minister smiled gently. 

“It certainly will not take much to ruin you here 
now—not very much, sir. You help along pretty 
well—pretty well, I think.” 

“Is he such a dangerous man then, this Mosevig? 
He seems to have enough trying to take care of him¬ 
self. I can’t imagine there is any danger to the con¬ 
gregation from that quarter.” 

“So that’s your opinion? Only wait and see. That 
man means business. Only wait till he sees that the 
fences are down around the congregation. It will not 
be long before he sees it, and then he’ll be there.” 

Pastor Welde was silent for a while. Then he rose 
and placed himself in front of Brooten. “Well, in 
God’s name, let him come then,” he said. 

Brooten had also risen. His inborn respect for the 


242 


Waldemar Ager 


minister struggled with contempt for a man who 
would let others ride over him in such a manner—or 
was there something in the talk after all? Was he 
afraid of Mosevig? The way he had acted was not 
the way a person would act who did not have some¬ 
thing rotten about him. He eyed Pastor Welde 
sharply and thought he saw a gleam of fear or un¬ 
easiness in the young man’s eyes. He stepped up to 
him and said in a low voice that was almost a whis¬ 
per: 

“There isn’t something, is there? Something—well, 
you’re a minister, but the flesh is weak and—well, it 
has happened before that ministers and ministers’ 
daughters—.” 

He did not get further, for Pastor Welde, who had 
involuntarily taken a step back, suddenly caught him 
over both arms. With the clumsy grip of a giant, he 
pinned him to the wall. There they stood breast 
against breast and not a word was said. The bank 
president’s face suddenly had become gray with a 
touch of blue. He felt his chest pressed together till 
he could scarcely breathe. He was so dazed that he 
seemed to forget who he was, and he was stricken with 
terror. Above him he saw a face distorted by pain; 
there was also something else, a dreadful but awk¬ 
ward strength—the knotted sinews of the neck, mus¬ 
cles that bulged, veins that had swelled to an un¬ 
natural size. Then this feeling of faintness and weak¬ 
ness. He felt dizzy, and it seemed as tho he were 
caught between two freight cars. Even in his terror 
he could add two and two together. If this man struck 
him it would be the last of Brooten. He must be 
quiet. He heard Welde’s voice, as if it were far away. 
“Sit down and be reasonable, Brooten, and let us talk 
together.” And then he had a vague feeling of being 
lifted up from the floor and with irresistible force 


Christ Before Pilate 


243 


placed in a chair that broke under him, so that both 
lay in a heap on the floor. This brought the minister 
to his senses. 

“Did the chair break?” he said, out of breath and 
confused. “Let me help you. Oh, that chair. Sit 
down in this chair, Mr. Brooten.” 

The bank president was placed in another chair. 
He remained sitting there limp and flabby, his hands 
hanging down by his sides. It was as if something had 
gone to pieces inside of him and would not perform 
its functions. He was stunned and looked timidly at 
the minister, who was continually wiping his sweaty 
brow and making excuses for the chair as tho it were 
from this that the whole commotion had arisen. 

His eyes followed the minister, who bustled about 
here and there, taking hold of things and putting them 
down again, opening a window and closing it again; 
all this as if he did not know what he should do. 
Brooten was unnerved mentally as well as physically, 
and everything seemed to swim before his eyes. The 
pictures on the wall danced up and down as if moved 
by some machinery. Most dreadful of all was a large, 
black body that hovered around him. 

The minister looked about the room in his embar¬ 
rassment and saw the cigar box. “Take a cigar, 
Brooten?” he said and handed him the case. Brooten 
raised his arm with some effort, took a cigar and put 
it in his mouth and began to puff at it without light¬ 
ing it. When the minister brought him a lighted match 
he muttered a scarcely audible “Thank you.” 

Welde himself was confused. The bank president’s 
utter helplessness overwhelmed him. He acted as if 
he wanted to make good a great wrong he had done 
him and still falteringly tried to make excuses for 
the chair that had gone to pieces. After a while he 


244 


Waldemar Ager 


was able to explain himself. He avoided touching 
upon Brooten’s disgusting insinuations. 

“I am very sorry that this has happened/’ he said. 
“You have always been so good to me. I have al¬ 
ways thought a great deal of you, too.” When Broo- 
ten did not say a word, he continued in a sad and low 
voice. “I know now what you intended to do—I un¬ 
derstand now, that it was for my good; but I hap¬ 
pened to think of that poor fellow and I felt sorry 
for him and—so I did it without thinking much of 
the consequences; but Brooten, dear me, what’s this ? 
Are you sick?” 

Brooten had become pale as death. The cigar fell 
out of his mouth and his head sank down. He had 
fainted. When the minister took hold of him to lay 
him on the sofa he felt that his strength had entirely 
left him, and it was only with great effort that he 
could put him there. He shook as if from the ague. 
He brought water and bathed the banker’s forehead, 
loosened his collar and unbuttoned his vest. He 
stroked his hair and then noticed how thin it was, 
and he recollected how generous Brooten had been 
both to the congregation and to himself. 

Brooten soon revived. He raised himself a little. 
“Where am I?” “Is it you, Welde?” 

“Yes, now you’ll be all right soon, Brooten. I was 
so frightened about you.” 

Brooten drank a little water and soon recovered. 
The minister did not tire offering his services. Broo¬ 
ten could put things together. The pastor’s great 
humility gave him back his self-confidence. He was a 
poor wretch, this minister, but good gracious, what 
strength he had. That one who was so strong could 
act like a whipped cur, he could not understand; but 
he felt like a victor when he saw Welde’s anxiety in 


Christ Before Pilate 


245 


trying to make things right again, and he listened to 
his attempts at excusing himself. 

“I acted foolishly,” explained the minister, “but 
you see that picture there, I have listened some to 
both of these, both to Him and to him (he pointed 
to Christ and Pilate) within me. The one said it was 
perfectly right the way Brooten wanted it, and the 
other said that Mosevig was old and the congregation 
poor. The one said: Mosevig ought to be horsewhip¬ 
ped ; the other said: He ought tq be helped, and so I 
sent the money; but I didn’t know there would be such 
a hub-bub, otherwise I suppose I would not have 
done it.” 

Brooten felt better now, and his contempt for the 
minister increased. He had been paralyzed with ter¬ 
ror when he felt the minister’s terrible strength and 
had almost felt as if he deserved it, when the mighty 
arms squeezed the breath out of him. But when he 
now saw the same man come with empty excuses and 
phrases, a new feeling began to stir within him. 

And this new feeling was contempt. 


Brooten stopped and turned in the doorway as he 
left. “I hope this scene will remain between ourselves. 
It would be embarrassing for both of us if people 
should know of this.” 

He went, but bent over now and then like one who 
is sore and stiff in all his joints. 

Welde followed him way out, with many regrets at 
what had happened. 

A broad and bony form rose on the other side of 
the street. He caught a few of the parting words and 
stepped across in time to greet Pastor Welde, who 
was still standing on the steps. 

“Good day, pastor—Good day!” 




246 


Waldemar Acer 


Welde had scarcely returned his greeting before 
Mosevig burst out into a loud, scornful laughter. 

“It went into the ditch!” 

“What went?” 

“It went into the ditch, the foreclosure of that mort¬ 
gage on the church.” 

“Did it?” 

“You didn’t succeed with your plots, you and Broo- 
ten.” 

“Plots? What do you mean?” Welde asked in 
surprise. 

Mosevig straightened himself, struck an attitude 
and pointed upward: 

“There is one above, Pastor Welde! There is one 
above. Look out for Him ! Look out for Him!” 

He understood now. 

He hurried off without waiting for an answer. 

Welde remained standing. It took some time be¬ 
fore he collected his thoughts enough to go in. His 
straight and broad back bent as he passed thru the 
door, and he closed it very quietly. It was a long time 
before the lamp was lit on the inside. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


‘‘Whom the Gods would destroy they first make 
mad/’ said Dr. Spohr in a bitter tone. 

His wife sat with her needlework and remained 
silent. She usually took Pastor Welde’s part, but 
just now she did not know what to say. 

The doctor puffed away at his pipe. It was not the 
first time he was rehearsing the story of Pastor 
Welde’s blunders. His wife’s silence provoked him 
and he continued: 

“The Brootens, the Jensens, the Holms, the Nelson 
Brothers, and all the leading people in the congrega¬ 
tion are angry with the minister. The Brootens do not 
speak to him any more—they dig and work like moles 
to get rid of him. Now he could have managed— 
you understand, managed nicely, for all the trades- 
union people were with him. The former pastor was 
absolutely against all such unions, and said they were 
nurseries for socialism and atheism. These—now let 
me see: In the mill-workers’ union, nearly all of them 
are Norwegians, and more than half of them belong 
to the church; all the workmen in Nelson Brothers’ 
factory, almost all of them are in the congregation; 
then about two score men in the shoe factory; and 
then the tailors—certainly over two-thirds of the men 
belong to some union, and they have stood with the 
pastor all the time—especially now when he got the 
leading men against him. So they got up a “working¬ 
men’s get-together meeting” and invited the minister 
to speak—it was a demonstration, you see, in a tact¬ 
ful manner; they wanted to let him understand that he 
could count on them. To be honest, it was such a 
clever stroke that the big-bugs in the church are mere 


248 


Waldemar Ager 


bunglers in church politics compared to them—and 
then he goes to work and spoils it all.” 

Mrs. Spohr took a hairpin out of her heavy blonde 
hair and scratched her head with it. Her head al¬ 
ways itched when she was curious. 

“No, I don't believe that, my dear. Why should 
that speech have such bad effects? I can't understand 
that.” 

The doctor looked searchingly at his wife. He was 
not in a mood for wrangling tonight. It was best to 
speak out plainly. 

“Pastor Welde is an ass." 

“Spohr," said his wife reproachfully. She had again 
taken up her work. 

“Welde is an ass,“ repeated the doctor and went 
and emptied his pipe. “Instead of speaking of the 
greedy capitalists who heap up great riches by depriv¬ 
ing the poor laborer of the fruit of his labor and keep 
him in ignorance and oppression, and all this stuff 
about the curse of the trusts and Rockefeller and the 
rich man in hell, why—" 

“What then, dear?" 

“Well, instead of such things, he speaks of the 
workingmen's unscrupulousness and lack of sense of 
responsibility towards their employers." 

“What do you say? Did he really do that?" 

“Yes, he did. Spoke about servant girls who were 
careless about the gas, who were extravagant in the 
use of butter and lard and did not care if they wasted 
a dollar or two a week of their mistress’ money. He 
talked at large about the laborers who loaf on their 
jobs, time-servers, and those who are careless with 
tools and machines and not trustworthy — workers 
who hate their work, think ill of their employers, and 
actually steal from them. Housewives and business 
men are scouring the country hunting for servants 


Christ Before Pilate 


249 


and workers who are reliable and conscientious with 
things entrusted to them because such help is so 
scarce.” 

“Yes, but in a way that is right, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes, in a way, perhaps. The one who is faith¬ 
ful in small matters shall be entrusted with much, he 
said. This applies to the individual as well as to the 
whole laboring class. They must begin to show their 
employers the consideration and interest that they 
want their employers to show towards them. Then 
the rest will come of itself: better pay, a better under¬ 
standing, pensions for the old, help in sickness, a share 
in the profits, etc.” 

“But there could be nothing wrong in saying this?” 

“Of course it was wrong. Why the deuce didn’t 
he talk about the rich man in hell? You remember 
him, that fellow with Lazarus. That is an excellent 
text. Welde is a perfect idiot. Now he has the whole 
flock against him. They believe he made that speech 
in order to be on good terms with the big-bugs. You 
can imagine how embarrassing it was. They had ex¬ 
pected something entirely different. No one can 
blame them for that. He makes himself impossible, 
utterly and absolutely impossible.” 

“But it was true, you must admit that in a way he 
was justified in saying it.” 

“Oh, fiddlesticks! Isn’t one equally justified in giv¬ 
ing these money-bags a punch on the solar plexus? 
Whose fault is it that the laborers and servants are 
the way they are? What may be said? Of course, 
it may be said, but he did not need to present just 
that side of the case, did he? But you can’t fry fat 
out of a saw horse,” he added resignedly. He would 
like to hear his wife take Welde’s part. 

But she sat quite lost in thought. 

“Pastor Welde has really acted very foolishly,” she 


250 


Waldemar Ager 


said at last. “Here was the story about that girl. She 
went about imagining that she could get Pastor 
Welde, so that when her fellow came back to marry 
her, she almost had to be forced to do so. It was a 
fine pickle for a minister to get into.” 

“Yes, it was fine, very fine,” mocked the doctor. 
“Now people have got it into their heads that it was 
one of these marriages of convenience that the upper 
classes arrange to cover themselves. They can’t un¬ 
derstand why the minister should want to help her 
and afterwards send money to the boy to get them 
married—almost against the girl’s own wishes. Peo¬ 
ple can’t understand how a man can do anything like 
that unless there is something rotten at the bottom 
of it. Well, I don’t understand it myself, either.” 

“No, but my dear, you would have done the same, 
I’m sure.” 

“I—no—never.” 

“Now, don’t pretend, I beg,” she teased. “Didn’t 
you want to take that Mosevig girl into our house in 
spite of her condition and against your own dear 
little wife’s wishes?” she sobbed. But her sobbing 
was only in fun, and the doctor had to laugh. He went 
over to where she sat and was going to put his arm 
about her neck; but she still pretended to be crying. 

“How much am I to be fined? Is it a new hat or 
dress—or perhaps a trip to Minneapolis? Dear me, 
how could I ever think of marrying a Danish girl? 
She skins me alive—that she does. Be good and let 
me live, so I can warn my dear countrymen against 
marrying Danish girls. Don’t kill me by keeping me 
in suspense about the size of the fine.” 

“Let me alone!” She struck at him, but, their jest¬ 
ing did not seem quite natural tonight. The thought 
of Pastor Welde weighed heavily on them both, and 
the doctor again sought his pipe and tobacco box. He 


Christ Before Pilate 


251 


stood a long time fingering his pipe, absorbed in 
thought. Then he heard a light step behind him. It 
was his wife who laid both hands on his shoulders. 

“Now tell me, Spohr—can’t we do something to 
help Mr. Welde out of this pinch?” 

“I might prescribe rat poison for him,” said the doc¬ 
tor fiercely. 

But his heart was bleeding. 


“He will, presumably, have to seek a new call. It 
would, presumably, be best—perhaps—both for him 
and for the congregation.” It was Deacon Bunde- 
gaard who spoke. He had met Andrew Thompson on 
the bridge and they stopped there to discuss the sub¬ 
ject that occupied the minds of the entire congrega¬ 
tion. 

Thompson did not voice his opinion at once. He 
stood with his back to the railing, resting on both 
elbows and looking thoughtfully straight ahead. “Yes, 
that may be,” he said at last, “but it may be difficult 
enough to get him to resign, for we have no definite 
complaint against him,” he added somewhat sadly. 

“Yes, that is perhaps the worst,” said Bundegaard 
eagerly. “This is exactly what makes it so difficult 
for us as deacons of the congregation. If we could 
find some fault with him, it would be easy; the trou¬ 
ble is, presumably, that he is not what we took him 
to be. There are none who are not dissatisfied with 
him; but what this dissatisfaction is, the reason and 
the cause of it—well, that is, presumably, difficult to 
find out. Now our members trot over to the West 
side to Mosevig’s church; but that will not do in the 
long run. Anybody can understand that. He was 
all right in the beginning. This is too bad, really too 
bad.” 

“Yes, it is really too bad. But what shall we do? 



252 


Waldemar Ager 


As Christian people we can’t discharge him off-hand, 
in view of the fact that we can’t find any charge 
against him. That gossip is nothing to rest a case on, 
and now the girl is married and that whole matter out 
of the way.” 

Bundegaard was lost in deep meditation. “No, as 
Christian people we must try some other way,” he said 
at last. “Brooten means, presumably, that we must 
let the minister understand that we do not have the 
confidence in him that we had before, and so on. He 
will resign willingly as soon as he sees that he is not 
the right man for the place; but it is too bad for him, 
for he is, presumably, a good-natured and kindly 
man.” 

“He is too kindly, I believe,” said Thompson. 

“Yes, I suppose he is,” seconded Bundegaard. 

There was quite a bustle in Mrs. Berven’s living 
room. The oldest boy had been over to the baker’s 
twice, and the coffee pot had been on and off three 
times. She did not make much coffee at a time. When 
Mrs. Storlie came, she had to put it on again, and like¬ 
wise when the woman from Bergen came. And now 
Mrs. Thompson also sat there and did most of the 
talking. The old disputes were buried now. The in¬ 
terests of the congregation had become everything to 
everybody. 

“There must have been something in it,” Mrs. 
Thompson said emphatically. “Why should he send 
money to that Nelson boy and be so anxious to get 
them married? He ought to know that it looked 
suspicious.” 

“I’ll tell you something,” the woman from Bergen 
chimed in, and she began to tell about the upper class 
folks in Bergen, who always took care to get people 
married—to some one—for those that have money 
have power. She mentioned several instances, and an- 


Christ Before Pilate 


253 


other woman could also confirm this with a case—a 
girl she had worked together with. They got money 
to pay their passage to America, and some money 
besides. No one knew how much money they got. 

Mrs. Storlie had to repeat the story of the pastor 
and the half crazy woman from Trondhjem, who after¬ 
wards became a Holy Jumper. Well, she would soon 
be thru with her jumping, she imagined. But one 
thing was sure; she had seen this with her own eyes. 
She had kept still about it—never a word had come 
from her lips until this other story had come up. Then 
she could not keep quiet any longer, for the truth 
must be told. Oh, such a blessed man as he seemed 
at first. 

But after she saw this—and God was her witness 
that it was the truth, the spirit had kind of left her 
and she had not been able to cry in church since that 
day until her fountain of tears had been loosened in 
Mosevig’s church on the eleventh Sunday after Trinity. 
Neither the Communion nor funerals had done her any 
good, but it was better now, her fountain of tears was 
loosened now. It loosened also a bit when she was 
telling this, so it was plainly in working order now. 

A woman who had said but little before, now burst 
forth with an emphatic: “Ah, yes, indeed! I know the 
men folks”—and the others joined in. The men folks 
are not to be trusted. 

In the house next door, Mrs. Ole Narvesen went 
about and was angry and slammed the doors. She had 
shown herself several times outside with some work 
that she was tugging at. She intended to let these 
gossips see that she had other things to do than to 
slander the minister. 

She straightened herself, and her sharp features had 
a look of pain. If only Welde had listened to her. 
then he would have been posted on what they were up 


254 


Waldemar Ager 


to. But he did not understand his own good and 
would stick up for these gossipy coffee-party women. 

And that was the reason that things turned out the 
way they did. 

In the young people’s society there was a main 
point that all paid particular attention to, and that 
was, that Pastor Welde had proposed to Ellen Mose- 
vig, but her father had said No. They were well in¬ 
formed in regard to this: Ellen’s best friend had told 
it, and she had it from Ellen herself, and she knew 
that Pastor Welde had courted her even when she 
was engaged to Jack. The same girl friend did not 
want to have anything to do with Ellen now—when 
she had found out how she was, and she would not 
show herself in her company for anything in the 
world; but that Pastor Welde had wanted to marry 
her, and that her father had said No—that much she 
knew. 

And it was evident that Welde mourned for her and 
would have married her and been glad to get her. It 
was such girls as Ellen that the men ran after. The 
decent girls did not have such a high standing. 

And the decent girls felt the sting. It was all right 
to preach volubly about propriety, but when it came to 
the point, then they were most fond of girls like Ellen 
Mosevig. Such girls they would run after from one 
end of the country to the other. 

The boys had their fun. They always have fun 
when they hear about an unlucky suitor; but behind 
it all, contempt lay in waiting. The minister who had 
been sky-high above them had all of a sudden tumbled 
down among them, a miserable figure. 

It was almost impossible to get up any interesting 
programs any more. It was as if something had 
gone to pieces in their midst. 



Christ Before Pilate 


255 


Welde must have understood that his presence put 
a damper on their spirits. When he stayed away and 
they had a new president, things went better. A gifted 
newcomer took his place, so all went well. The base¬ 
ment was filled, and Pastor Welde generally took a 
walk past the church when the weekly meetings were 
held. He walked slowly past on the other side of the 
street. 

How gladly he would have gone inside and seated 
himself by the door. He thought of the pleasant mem¬ 
ories from these meetings. He was one of those un¬ 
fortunate ones who cannot forget their gleams of hap¬ 
piness in life—he was one who could love a closed 
door because it had once been open to him, and a 
cold hearth because it had once warmed him. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


It was Christmas Eve and late in the afternoon. 
Pastor Welde sat in his study, fully dressed, and tried 
to account for his not having started on his journey 
home the day before, as he had intended to do. 

His suitcase was packed. His fur coat hung across 
the back of a chair, just as Jorgina had placed it be¬ 
fore she left. The drawers were locked, the kitchen 
door fastened, and the fire out in the fireplace. 

Why did he sit there yet? He ought to be at home 
by this time—at home with father and mother. 

He looked about helplessly. On the wall hung a 
clock that ticked so loudly that it tortured him. It 
was now a quarter past four. He must have slept 
after all. 

The memory of a long and bad night rose before 
him. He remembered now that he had lain on the 
sofa, with his face buried in a pillow. He remembered 
that he had prayed, that he had tried to read some¬ 
thing, that he had walked the floor up and down, up 
and down for hours and had looked at the hands of 
the clock, those hands that scarcely seemed to move. 

And he had thought and thought, caught as in a 
net that he could not escape, perplexed and lost in a 
jumble of heavy and painful thoughts. 

He turned halfway around in the chair and saw 
his own face in the mirror. It gave him a start when 
he saw how pale and blank it was. The beard he 
had grown made him look dreadfully old, he thought. 
He rose and stretched his limbs. He would go and 
bathe his face. It might help a little—and then he 
would find something to eat. That would also help. 


Christ Before Pilate 


257 


He took off his coat and vest and got ready. He 
found everything clean and neat in the bathroom. 
Jorgina was capable. Every faucet shone, all was 
polished and bright, and the towels lay as they came 
from the wash, neatly folded. She prided herself 
on this. It seemed almost like a crime to muss any¬ 
thing. She had left it, believing that she would find 
everything shining and untouched when she came 
back. So he went into the kitchen, where he also 
found everything immaculate. He walked carefully, 
with a feeling of apprehension, across the floor. He 
seemed startled when the water came pouring out 
when he opened the faucet. He moistened a hand¬ 
kerchief and rubbed his face with it. It felt good. 
No one could say anything about it when he only used 
his own handkerchiefs. The cold water was fine any¬ 
way. He could not go like a pig with the sleep in 
his eyes. He carefully removed all signs of having 
been by the water faucet and began to comb his hair. 
He noticed that he was beginning to lose his hair. It 
was too bad. There were so many bald-headed min¬ 
isters already in his church, making a display at the 
annual meetings. He dressed and got ready. One 
train left at six o’clock, and another still later. He 
must try to get away. 

It was cold, and he began to pace the floor. It 
brought to his mind the memory of more than one 
lonely, sleepless night of late. 

But it was better now. He could reflect more calm¬ 
ly. He did not feel this particular anxiety any more. 
Last night he had really got the idea that his mother 
was sick and dying, but that they had not wanted to 
tell him about it. Then he had understood what a 
dreadful mistake he had made in not taking the eve¬ 
ning train as he had intended to do. In his imagina¬ 
tion he saw her pale face turned toward the door: 


258 


Waldemar Ager 


Isn’t he coming soon? And he had seen himself 
come, black crepe on the door, his father on his knees 
by the bed, and the others gathered around it. Oh, if 
God would only spare her another day. Then he had 
prayed and wept and moaned and had at last dressed 
for the forenoon train and had sat down to wait for it 
—and had fallen asleep and slept till the train had 
gone. He nearly had to laugh now. His mother 
was in excellent health. Then he remembered his 
anxiety about fire, burglars, and even ghosts, that had 
troubled him and driven sleep away from his couch. 

He needed rest—yes, rest—only rest, he thought, 
as he restlessly walked back and forth. 

It was perhaps only in his imagination that the 
congregation wanted to get rid of him. The great 
willingness to let him go just at the holiday season, 
when every minister is expected to be at his post — 
well, they might have other reasons. 

He remembered so well—he had turned these words 
over in his mind for several days now—that he had 
said it would have been so fine to get home for Christ¬ 
mas. By this he had certainly not meant that he 
would leave his duties, but they had at once taken it 
seriously, both Bundegaard and the others. They 
had arranged with a neighboring minister who had 
kindly promised to fill his place. He had protested, 
but he found that it was already settled. Now he 
knew well that he also had some authority in this 
matter; but they might think it was the “offering,” 
or the gift of money usually presented at Christmas 
that he was afraid of losing. 

Why should he ascribe such low motives to them? 
It might be they had seen that he needed rest. 


All in all, they had been kind and indulgent toward 
him. Little or nothing had he been able to do. 



Christ Before Pilate 


259 


There was little to point to and say: This is done 
since Welde came here. This is what he has accom¬ 
plished. He had busied himself with his own affairs 
and not with theirs. He had mixed up in this and 
that, as, for instance, that girl affair. It was fortunate 
it turned out as it did. Hadn’t he gone and troubled 
himself about this contemptible Mosevig and neg¬ 
lected his own church? It was not to take care of 
Mosevig and his thoughtless daughter he had been 
called. The congregation had really been indulgent 
toward him-. 

Come where my love lies dreaming, 
Dreaming the happy hours away -. 

He checked himself and bit his lips. Time and 
again it had occurred of late that even very serious 
trains of thought had been broken by his finding him¬ 
self humming a tune, or that some irrelevant quota¬ 
tion, or nonsense of some kind would force itself upon 
him. Something seemed to be going to pieces within 
him—his thoughts were broken and there were long, 
blank intervals between them. 

Blankety, blankety, blank—blank—blank—! 

- There it was again. What kind of nonsense 

was this? 

He turned about with a determined air and tapped 
the floor with his foot. 

His labors had been like his pastel sketch—a failure. 
He had put that girl on it as a “burning ship,” but it 
did not cover the short-comings. People would not 
have it—it could not be disposed of. People saw that 
it was humbug. 

He was alone now, and it began to get dark. It 
was uncanny in the corners, and at times he was 
startled by some sound or other that he could not ex¬ 
plain. 





260 


Waldemar Ager 


Who was Conrad Walther Welde? The pastor of 
Zion Congregation, who had labored here nearly two 
years, and had managed so poorly that he scarcely 
ventured to visit his own father. It was not only in¬ 
side of him that something was going to pieces, but 
it was also outside, in the congregation. 

It was Christmas, and as a minister he should have 
had many things to attend to, but now he had nothing 
to do except to pull himself together to reach some 
decision—to arrive at some result. 

He had a congregation, and now they would have 
needed him, but just now they had no use for him 
either. He had locked himself out and had fastened 
the door and the key was on the inside. That was 
why he stood at the outside. He did not want to 
force his way in. Well, it seemed that they man¬ 
aged well, inside without him. No one looked out to 
see if he was still standing on the steps. 

That was the way matters stood between him and 
his congregation. 

In the dark, the minister’s eye caught the white 
figure of Christ on the painting. It stood out with 
remarkable clearness in the twilight of the departing 
day—only that and nothing else. 

His thoughts fluttered towards it and circled about 
it like tired, wounded birds, trying to find something 
to rest on. 

And they rested, clung fast. He had seen so many 
things in this painting; but now Jesus stood there 
alone and had to stand there alone. Everything else 
was gone; He alone was left. 

He did not get any further, nor, did he want to get 
any further. Only He was left in the picture now. 
There was nothing more to that subject. 

Or—he corrected himself—so tremendously much 
was there to it. 


Christ Before Pilate 


261 


Theology, dogmatics, the Church, church interests, 
one’s calling, and this and that—he almost had to 
laugh. 

There was but one fact to make note of, and that 
was, that he was not the only one who had been left 
alone—that they were two, that his own path had led 
him to the hall of judgment. He had two forces 
within him. It was Pilate, who always placed the 
congregation and the church interests before him and 
condemned him. That his naked soul stood trem¬ 
bling and alone, while listening to the many accusa¬ 
tions, was proof that Pilate had the law on his side. 
But the very fact that he, Welde, had come there, 
that his soul had been arraigned before his reason 
and had found the Savior there before, that was some¬ 
thing to abide by. His failure as a minister and 
church leader had brought him here. He held on to 
this. 

And because there was nothing else to cleave to, 
no explanations were needed—only this, that there 
was certainly One who understood. 

One who had gotten there must have walked the 
road which led to it. There was an explanation after 
all. 

The bitter feeling of not being understood, of being 
wronged and deserted by his own, besides being help¬ 
less and without any weapons which he would or 
could use—he was an absolute failure seen from the 
angle of sober reasoning. 

He understood it now, and understood himself, and 
would have to be understood by others. 

Not in order to get help-. 

He could almost weep for joy, knowing that he did 
not need any help now. If he only could escape be¬ 
ing tossed about—if he only could understand how 
to connect these fragments of a broken mind. 


262 


Waldemar Ager 


Pastor Welde remained standing a long time ab¬ 
sorbed in gazing at the lonely figure on the painting, 
and his eyes were filled with tears. 

It was “the kingdom within you” in the highest 
potency. An independent kingdom, an incomprehen¬ 
sible kingdom, whose defeats are victories; whose 
mightiest are those who are trampled on; whose most 
powerful laws are written in the sand, and whose 
giants often walk by means of canes and crutches. 
A kingdom in which the sighs of the wretched are 
imperative commands, and the edicts of an emperor 
null and void—a kingdom that will conquer the world 
by not caring a whit about the world, a kingdom in 
which one wins that which he has lost and loses that 
which he thinks he has won. The most incomprehen¬ 
sible, the most powerful of all kingdoms, established 
for all eternity by a Man who was forsaken by all in 
the most desolate moment of his life, when He suc¬ 
cumbed and even believed that God had forsaken Him. 


Nothing had he himself done to be placed before 
this tribunal. Welde was quite sure that he had 
performed his duties acceptably. He had wished to 
gather all about him, to; see them all happy, and now 
it had come to this, that all stayed away and all were 
dissatisfied and he suddenly found himself all alone. 
It was unexpected, and for that reason very painful; 
but when his condition was at its worst, then he un¬ 
derstood —. 


“One must be kind of pulverized before he can get 
anything really solid out of himself.” 

Welde was startled. He heard this sentence dis¬ 
tinctly spoken with a kindly drawl. He turned around 
and noticed that it had grown dark. He listened 
again. The voice had been within him. It seemed 




Christ Before Pilate 


263 


so familiar; but it took some time before he recollect¬ 
ed it, and then one of his father’s old church members 
stood out clearly before his mind. He remembered 
from his childhood a friendly old farmer who 
often came to the parsonage. His father had said 
that this farmer was quite a philosopher, but had 
otherwise been amused at his pronunciation of dif¬ 
ficult words from the book language. He had been a 
man of hard luck, but he met all his difficulties with 
a smile of resignation and was absolutely sure that 
everything was for the best. 

Now he stood out so vividly before Welde, this 
worthy old man, long ago departed. One must be 
pulverized before he can get anything really solid out 
of himself. Welde laughed aloud. There was some¬ 
thing so recklessly contradictory in this that he had 
to laugh. “Aha, old Joash, are you calling on me to 
philosophize for me, as you did for father when I 
was a little boy? You were a great guy:—Old Joash 
with the leather breeches and the troublesome book- 
language,—yes, you were a great guy!” 

All at once Welde gave a start and put his hand to 
his forehead. The hand was cold. He shivered with 
cold, and here he stood talking to himself. This 
would not do. He must get out and get something 
to eat and get ready for the last train. He lit the 
lamp and arranged his packages so that all should 
be ready, then hurried out. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


The street seemed to be alive with people and vehi¬ 
cles. The stores were crowded and the Christmas 
shopping was in full blast. The windows glittered, 
and behind them was a wealth of all kinds of finery. 
People were all very busy. They came out with their 
packages and met others that carried packages, hur¬ 
ried past each other and hastened away. Even the 
workingmen had their hats tilted on one side and 
smoked cigars. All must have made good bargains, 
for all seemed pleased and happy. 

It must be a great pleasure to have someone to buy 
things for. Pastor Welde felt an irrepressible desire 
to buy something. To be sure! He ought to buy 
a box of cigars for Dr. Spohr. When he was in the 
cigar store, he thought of Brooten. He must get a box 
for him also. He wrote cards with Christmas greet¬ 
ings, placed them in the boxes and ordered them sent 
the next morning. 

He felt light of heart as he again was out in the 
street, but after a while he remembered that he ought 
to get something for Mrs. Ole Narvesen, whom he 
had snubbed so sharply. Yes, he’d get something 
for Ole, too. Then for the Larsons, Thompsons, 
Storlies, the Bundegaards, and still others. Welde 
went shopping from store to store, and the more he 
bought the happier he became. On every package 
he wrote a name and address and a “Merry Christ¬ 
mas.” He had many packages to carry now, tho all 
those going to the same family were put in one bundle. 
He was loaded down with packages and still thought 
he must get more. Ole had a bigger family than any 
of his acquaintances. He even bought a present for 


Christ Before Pilate 


265 


old Joash—Joash, who had been dead a half score of 
years, but he did not remember that. Instead, he re¬ 
membered Joash’s mittens, with big holes in them, 
that he used to put by the stove hearth—Joash who 
had to be pulverized before anything really solid could 
be made out of him. Welde laughed inwardly. Oh, 
yes, that Joash! He must get sheepskin gloves for 
him; the biggest in the whole store. A fist as big as 
a ham hung down from each side of Joash. Welde 
laughed again. Oh, that Joash! He was surely a 
great guy. 

A couple of persons slackened their speed, and 
looked at him with surprise, and then began to giggle. 
Then he understood that he had been talking aloud to 
himself. He coughed, felt ashamed, and hurried on 
a few blocks before he went into another store. 

While standing in Wilburg and Thompson’s large 
store he found that he did not have any more money. 
The clerk knew him, however, and said he would 
send the bill. Welde felt greatly embarrassed that 
this should happen. Feeling ashamed of this, he went 
into another store, selected goods and hunted in vain 
for money in his empty purse. 


But now he must deliver these packages before it 
got too late. 


The day had been raw and chilly, and now some¬ 
thing hung in the air that would go neither up nor 
down. It was neither rain nor snow; it was some¬ 
thing between the two. The sidewalks were sticky 
from a mixture of mud and ice that would neither 
melt nor freeze. It was not light enough to let one 
walk with confidence, and not dark enough to urge 
one to take care, so people slid and pushed against 




266 


Waldemar Ager 


each other. The electric lights were in their places 
and on their posts. They had the required number 
of volts prescribed by the city council, and the 
graphite points glowed as intensely as ever; but the 
lights did not show to advantage; they shone faintly, 
with a yellowish tint, tho no fault could be found with 
them. The fault was with the atmosphere. 

A clammy fog had settled over the city. It was 
motionless and came from nowhere in particular. No 
one could say: Here it is more dense than else¬ 
where. It encompassed and covered all and filtered 
thru everywhere and found a person’s shivering and 
naked skin, thru layers of woolens and flannels. In 
the dim light from a store window one could see the 
fog, like millions of icy threads, fine like those spun 
by the silk worm, but sharp, and whichever way one 
tried to turn they always headed directly for his 
bosom. 

People could not find their way as in clear weather. 
The objects became uncertain and changeable. The 
houses grew smaller, the doorways became narrower, 
but the pedestrians one met loomed like giants that 
one must get out of the way of and quickly too. Those 
that were sure of their way pulled their coat collars 
up about their ears, plunged forward, and heard and 
saw nothing. No one walked erect any more—they 
pushed ahead with all their packages and things, 
bent towards the mud on which their feet were tread¬ 
ing. 

A drunken man staggered along* with uncertain 
steps; he slipped but regained his balance—pulled him¬ 
self together and went against a lamp post, braced 
himself up again and went against a wall. 


Pastor Welde was at last thru with his purchases. 



Christ Before Pilate 


267 


He could not carry much more now, and his pockets 
bulged out magnificently. He really looked like the 
head of a family with cares and burdens, he thought 
to himself. When he started out, plunging forward 
and looking neither to right nor left, no one could 
doubt but that he had a very large family. 

Wives by the score, children by the hundred. He 
really had to laugh. 

A Santa Claus—that’s what I am, he thought 
further. It’s too bad the way chimneys are arranged 
nowadays. People do not expect anything from 
above any more, we live in a doubting and prosaic 
world. 

He had to restrain himself so as not to laugh aloud. 
The effort increased his headache, which had troubled 
him the whole evening. Cold shivers passed thru 
him. He wanted to button up his coat, but his hands 
were too full. Then he began to stumble. There was 
no sidewalk any further. He looked around and un¬ 
derstood that he was in the outskirts of the town. 
He gathered his wits and turned about. He was seri¬ 
ously frightened. This was not where he was to go. 
He walked rapidly; it was already late, and he had 
several places to go. 

He walked and walked. 

His fancy took another direction now. He saw be¬ 
fore him the happy faces of the Narvesens and the 
Larsons and the others that he would call on. He 
would have some fun with Narvesen. He would 
knock at the door and hide, and when Ole stuck his 
nose out he would give him a good scare; the Thomp¬ 
sons had to be handled differently, altogether differ¬ 
ently—and Bundegaard would, presumably, have to 
be taken in still another way. He would have to be¬ 
gin by saying: “As it is Christmas Eve, presum- 


268 


Waldemar Ager 


ably,” etc. He laughed, but he had grown cold and 
felt that his chin shook as he opened his mouth. Then 
he bit his teeth together and walked on. 

Here was a house that he knew. Why, it was 
Thompson’s house. He recognized everything. Once 
they had lived in quite a poor house, but that was a 
long time ago. He felt almost abashed at the thought 
of their living in such a fine house now and was 
ashamed of his humble gifts. He went up the steps 
and knocked at the door. A girl opened it. No, 
there was no one by that name here. The door was 
closed and he was left in the cold and raw night air. 
Then all at once he remembered that it was not the 
Thompsons but the Bundegaards who lived in this 
house. He was quite provoked at himself. It was a 
shame to ring again. After a few moments’ hesita¬ 
tion he rang again, and the maid once more opened 
the door. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but it was not 
Thompsons but Bundegaards I wanted—a strange for¬ 
getfulness on my part—Evan Bundegaard—?” 

The girl shook her head and could scarcely keep 
back a smile. To think that such fine people could 
get that way on Christmas Eve. “You’ll find him if 
you go till you find him,” she said with an assumed 
seriousness, and with a titter she slammed the door 
shut. 

Pastor Welde continued his wandering. He was 
not of those who give up very quickly. He tried sev¬ 
eral other places. There were none that knew those he 
inquired about, yet every time he was sure he knew 
the house. 

His head ached. Something pounded and ham¬ 
mered within. In merciless beats it came and kept 
time to the following stanza: “A child is born in 


Christ Before Pilate 


269 


Bethlehem, in Bethlehem.” He repeated these words 
incessantly, keeping time to the dull beats that seemed 
to be carried upward from below, so that it rang in 
his ears as he staggered along the deserted streets, 
with his arms full of packages. 


He had met a pedestrian and asked for Harrison 
Street. That person had not heard the name before 
and advised him to ask the policeman. “They know 
everything,” he said. 

“They know everything,” Welde repeated again 
and again, and when at last he seated himself on a 
stone step to rest he remembered that it was Garfield 
Avenue he should have inquired about. Now he 
would wait until a policeman came. They know every¬ 
thing. 



CHAPTER XXX 


They had celebrated a very happy Christmas at Ole 
Narvesen’s. According to Norwegian custom they 
had their Christmas tree Christmas Eve. 

At eleven o’clock the children had received their 
presents, and the smallest ones were now sleeping, 
with their toys in their arms. 

They had had coffee together with Ole’s niece, who 
worked for an American family in another part of 
town. She had spent Christmas Eve with them. 
After the coffee they had candy and nuts. They had 
everything in fine style this Christmas. The niece 
had to leave at last, and Ole was going to escort her. 
After some talking, it was decided that Mrs. Narvesen 
should go along also. Being tired after all the work, 
she thought it would do her good to get out. Selma, 
the oldest daughter, was to take care of the house and 
could do that all right. 

They had taken the niece home and Ole and his 
wife were on their way back. Ole was in a very 
cheerful mood. He held a cigar in the corner of his 
mouth, of a brand that Pastor Welde jokingly had 
called “Flora de smellibus Bado.” Ole had taken his 
wife’s arm, and they walked along nudging each other. 
Ole even acted as if he were a little drunk, in his 
exuberant good humor. He would fain hear his wife 
scold him in a mild voice. He even tried to trip 
her up—accidently, of course. 

Walking along they encountered a man who sat 
huddled together on the steps right across from Pastor 
Welde’s residence. They became serious at once. 
Mrs. Narvesen wanted to deliver a lecture on the 


Christ Before Pilate 


271 


drink habit, but Ole wanted to shake the man so as to 
get him up. He took hold of him and said: “What 
the Dickens is the matter, partner, you’re all right.” 

“We will direct you, mister. Where do you live?” 
Mrs. Narvesen joined in with her very best English. 

The person addressed lifted his head slowly and 
looked at them. 

“It’s Welde, Ole,” and Ole let go his hold. They 
stood still a moment, unable to find words. 

“Are you—are you sick?” Ole finally stuttered. 

Pastor Welde tried to say something, but he only 
uttered some inarticulate sounds, he shivered and his 
mouth refused to open. He only nodded his head. 

They helped him up. He took hold of his packages 
and felt of his bulging pockets, and a happy smile 
passed over his face, while he shrugged his shoulders 
as if he was cold. 

They followed him across the street and helped him 
in. They lit the lights and built a fire. Ole hurried 
off to get the doctor. There was no time to lose. 
Mrs. Narvesen remained. Her weariness had van¬ 
ished. She took care of the minister, helped him un¬ 
dress and got him to bed. Then he became warm. 

“Thank you, many thanks,” he said, but he did not 
seem to know her. 

At last Ole came with the, doctor. He thought the 
pastor had gone east and was very disturbed when he 
heard that Pastor Welde was at home alone and sick. 
He settled down in the sick room at once. Mrs. Nar¬ 
vesen also remained, and Ole had to go home alone. 

When he came home he found his daughter at her 
post. After sending her to bed he sat a long time 
alone, among the remains of the Christmas festivities, 
and smoked his “Smellibusses,” but his face, that 
usually was so jolly, was now very grave. 



272 


Waldemar Ager 


“It’s the heart, it’s the heart that’s defective,” Dr. 
Spohr complained when he came home from his sick 
call. It was the heart that caused his misgivings. 
He might be able to pull a body so free from alcohol 
thru an attack of pneumonia, but it was, as said be¬ 
fore, the heart that failed. 

Welde’s bed was moved into his study, which was 
now converted into a sick room. Jorgina had returned, 
and a trained nurse had taken the place of Mrs. 
Narvesen, who had faithfully held out the first days. 
His parents had been informed of his illness and were 
expected. 

Welde lay quiet most of the time. Even when he 
was delirious he spoke in a low voice. He asked 
about streets that no one knew and names that no 
one had heard about. At other times he wanted to 
get up; but when they told him that the doctor had 
said he should be quiet, he grew docile at once. 

It was not difficult to take care of him, the nurse 
said. 


Jorgina was out in the kitchen, busy with her bak¬ 
ing. The pastor’s mother was coming. She must stir 
up a cake or two and look after some other things 
also. The nurse was taking her after dinner nap, and 
Jorgina had left the doors open clear thru, so she 
could hear if Welde asked for anything. 

She was so glad now because the pastor was better. 
He had been in his right mind this afternoon. She 
stood thinking about what he meant, when he had 
called her in and asked her if she would do him a ser¬ 
vice. There was a letter in a blue envelope, with a 
French stamp on it, in the drawer. The address was 
in the corner of the envelope. She should write to 
that lady and say that he would come. 

What did he mean by that? 



Christ Before Pilate 


273 


Soon after he had called her again and said that 
she must write to his parents for him and say that he 
was coming. 

What could that mean? 

And the strangest of all—he had pointed to that 
Pilate picture that hung right across on the opposite 
wall, and asked her if she saw the white figure in the 
center of the painting. 

She had answered yes to this. What else could 
she answer, for everyone could see that. 

“What would you say, Jorgina,” he had said, “if 
that figure turned right around and looked at you?” 

“That must have been only imagination,” she had 
said. But he had only shaken his head. 

And that face, that face—Jorgina had to cry. She 
had to turn away from the eggs she was beating—he 
had looked at her with such a happy expression—tho 
she was only a servant in the house. 

She got up and was going to find a handkerchief. 
Her old eyes did not see clearly any more, and no 
one can beat eggs unless the eyes can see clearly. 

All at once she stopped—she heard something—now 
she heard Welde’s voice. 

“Pm coming—now. Yes, Pm coming!” he called 
out. Jorgina hurried to wipe her hands and run in: 
but directly after the words there came a noise as of 
something heavy falling. 

When she came to the door the minister was on his 
knees before the sofa, which had been moved to make 
room for the bed and now stood directly under the 
painting. The nurse came at the same time, and 
both she and Jorgina saw the head that was lifted 
toward the painting, drop forward. 

Each of the two women took hold of one of his 
arms, but he was too heavy for them. The nurse felt 
his pulse and began to chew her lower lip. 

Pastor Welde was no more. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


It was decided that Pastor Welde’s body should be 
brought to his home and buried there. They were to 
have a memorial service in the church of Zion. They 
had made elaborate preparations. In front of the 
church stood the massive black coffin, covered with 
flowers. The pulpit was draped in black. Busy 
women had spent the forenoon there, and Mrs. 
Andrew Thompson and Mrs. Berven had had a good 
chance to show what they could accomplish when they 
were agreed. Never had anyone seen anything more 
beautiful—it nearly took one’s breath away to look 
at this wealth of decorations, palms, and wreaths. 

Bank President Brooten had not been idle either. 
Time and again he had been over to the church to 
help. He wiped his perspiring forehead and praised 
the women and asked if they needed more to decorate 
with—if so, he would get it. 

They must have it suitably decorated, for one of 
the most prominent speakers of the church was to 
preach at the memorial service, and his fame had 
gone before him. 

In the basement the choir was practicing, “Wake, 
awake, for night is flying.” That had been Welde’s 
favorite hymn. 

In a house on the west side, a woman was spong¬ 
ing the knees of a pair of trousers, trying to take the 
shiny look out of them. Her husband, Pastor Mose- 
vig, had been invited to offer a prayer at the service, 
and she kept sponging and pressing energetically with 
the firm conviction that they would get a prayer that 
would do her husband and her church credit. While 
working, she thought how strange it was that such a 


Christ Before Pilate 


275 


large, strong man should die, and wondered what 
kind of a minister they now would get in the con¬ 
gregation. 

It was quiet in the parsonage, and there was a 
big, black bow at the door. Jorgina sat in the kitchen 
and told a small, refined looking, elderly lady dressed 
in black, for the twentieth time how Welde had had 
a cold and had coughed ever since he had been out 
fishing once in the fall and had fallen into the river. 
She conscientiously refrained from telling how it had 
happened. She had received her instructions from 
himself regarding it, and she knew a servant’s duties. 

But she told about everything else, and her narra¬ 
tive came by fits and starts, for she cried a great deal. 
She cried still more when the gentle little lady tried to 
comfort her and asked her to come home with them. 

Jorgina had worked both for Pastor Wangel of the 
Synod and Pastor Nelson of the United Church; but 
they were so different from Pastor Welde—there were 
so many things about him that were different. 

And they both wept together, Mrs. Welde and the 
old servant girl, especially when she repeated what 
he had said at the last. They both agreed that it 
seemed almost impossible to believe that he was gone. 

Outside, among the naked trees, a stately elderly 
gentleman walked about and kicked the dry leaves 
aside. It was winter and still not winter. It was 
neither cold nor warm, neither sunshine nor rain—it 
was the kind of weather that people die in. 

He wanted to be alone now, and walked alone 
among the naked trees. Out on the sidewalk some 
pedestrians hurried by and cast quick glances aside. 

“That is his father,” they said. 


But in the study a smoothly-shaven, broad-shoul¬ 
dered, compactly built man walked about, absorbed, as 



276 


Waldemar Ager 


it seemed, in his own thoughts. He was the widely 
known orator of the church, who was now to preach 
at the memorial service. 

His mouth was large but well formed. His chin 
was firm and his face expressive. The marked features 
were softened by a pair of friendly brown eyes that 
flashed when he now and then stopped his walking. 
He was erect in spite of many years, and his bearing 
was that of an officer. He stopped now and then 
and threw out a white, well formed hand, when he had 
a new idea, but pushed it into his steel gray hair when 
he lost the thread of his discourse. 

He had promised his old friend, Pastor Welde, that 
he would speak on this occasion, and he wished to 
speak so that it would make an impression. 

It was his method when he spoke to select some 
strong point in his subject and throw himself with 
all his might against this. He would pass by every¬ 
thing unessential and concentrate his strength as 
much as possible on a single point. Experience had 
taught him that in this way he could carry his audi¬ 
ence with him. In this way he could reach something 
and could bring out something. 

So he hunted for something prominent about the 
deceased that he could bring out like a flourish of 
trumpets. He felt the power within him to bring this 
out, but he hunted in vain for some cardinal virtue, or 
some certain strongly developed, praise-worthy 
quality. 

The young man was gifted; had been brought up in 
a good home, was exemplary in his conduct, was con¬ 
scientious in the execution of his duties—but—he had 
been given one of the best parishes in the church, and 
altho he had discharged his clerical duties faithfully, 
there was really nothing of importance about his 
work, which could be pointed out. 


Christ Before Pilate 


277 


The well groomed hand found its way up to the 
steel gray hair and took a firm hold of it. 

That was the trouble with the younger generation; 
they had no definite aim, no set purpose, and did not 
say: This I will do and that I will do. It was this 
that had characterized the pioneer ministers. They 
were church builders, leaders, and conquerors. They 
went out to gain territory. They had a fixed and con¬ 
crete purpose. 

That was the trouble with the younger ones; they 
did not place any high aims before themselves. 

And he continued to walk, while he vainly sought 
some strong point behind which he might marshal 
his thoughts and from which he could send them like 
a military charge against the audience. 

He stopped before the painting and stood a while 
and viewed the well known scene. 

It struck him that He, Christ, who stood there on 
the picture, had evidently not set Himself a fixed and 
concrete purpose either. 

He stood a while quite perplexed thinking of this. 

Then he made a gesture. Christ was Himself the 
object. When He did not set Himself a fixed pur¬ 
pose, it was because He was Himself the object and 
aim. 

And the widely known orator of the church con¬ 
tinued his restless walking, groping after some promi¬ 
nent trait of character of the deceased that he could 
hurl at the great audience like a fanfare. 


THE END 






























































































































































































































































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